Into the Maelstrom
by Aurora Nova
Summary: Marcus thinks he's woken up from a really bad hangover, but his nightmare is just beginning. Short story on a popular theme. Rated M for some mature language. Please read and review. Thank you!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Is This the Real Life?**

_**[Author's Note:**__ My husband and I have long believed that the "afterlife" is what we believe it will be. He's convinced he'll end up in Middle Earth, and who am I to gainsay him? For a long while I thought I might end up there, too, but the more I play "Skyrim" the more I think I'd end up here. Anyway, I toyed with this idea for a while, with different characters I've played in the game, and finally settled on Marcus, poor guy. I gave him a guide to help him get started, but the Dragonborn can't lean on everyone for too long. He has to learn to cope on his own. This is a short fiction, but has the potential to grow. Enjoy, and please read and review.]_

_[See the end of the Chapter for more __**Notes**__.]_

The pounding in his head told him he had the mother of all hangovers. He shouldn't have had those last few shooters, but they just went down so good! Lynne seemed to be enjoying herself as well, but assured him she'd be "designated driver" for the night.

The brightness behind his eyelids hurt, and the dog must be on the bed again, because he was being jostled around. But something didn't seem…quite…right….

Without opening his eyes he reached out for his wife, but both hands moved at once. Oh, was this the bondage game again? This early in the morning? And here he was with a hangover the size of Cleveland. He had to tell her he just wasn't up to it today. He cracked his eyes open. And shut them again, immediately.

That couldn't be right. He would have sworn in a court of law he was in a rough, wooden, horse-drawn cart. He took a deep breath to steady his stomach and immediately wished he hadn't as his olfactory glands were brutally assaulted by the smell of body odor, piss, shit and vomit. His vomit, he realized, as the sour smell was much too close for comfort. Great. He'd thrown up in his sleep. At least he hadn't choked on it.

So where the hell was he, if he wasn't at home in bed? He cracked his eyes open again and peered through the blurriness. A pine forest…horses…a wooden cart….four other people with him. The cart was jouncing most unpleasantly over a rough, rutted road partly paved with cobblestones. The sun was shining, but it seemed very cold, almost like October or November. That couldn't be right. It was the twenty-fifth of June; he knew that for a fact. He struggled to sit up, pushing against the front of the cart.

Across from him were three people: a large blonde man in some kind of leather and steel armor in shades of blue, silver and bronze; a wiry little dark-haired man in a dirty ragged tunic, who looked about as miserable as he felt himself; and at the end a small, curvy red-haired girl in a tunic no less ragged and dirty, with a strange look on her face. He would have said it resembled shocked recognition or fatalistic resignation, he wasn't sure which. All three of them were bound at the wrists, as he was.

Next to him, to his right, was another man, as large and imposing as the blonde man across from him, but this one was gagged as well as bound. The gagged man looked at him shrewdly, then seemed to make up his mind about something and stared instead at the young woman across from him. She met his gaze steadily and raised her chin just a little. A gesture of bravado, perhaps, but the gagged man seemed to approve, and the corners of his eyes crinkled just a little.

By this time Blonde Guy noticed he'd awakened, and began talking to him, but he let the words go over him. He was more concerned about where the hell he was and how the hell he was going to get back home. Had he been kidnapped? No, that was ridiculous. He wasn't important enough or rich enough for someone to go to the trouble. This had to be a hallucination. That was it! There had to have been something in the shooters last night. He was still dreaming. All he had to do was close his eyes and wait to wake up.

Except he didn't, and the people talking around him seemed very much alive and real.

"Where are they taking us?" he heard the little man ask.

"I don't know where we're going," Blonde Guy replied stoically, "but Sovngarde awaits."

At this the little man began to panic and called out several words or names that had no meaning, ending with a plea to the "divines".

"What's your name, miss?" Blonde Guy asked her.

"Tamsyn," she said softly. She had a nice voice, he'd give her that.

"Are you from High Rock?"

"M-maybe," she hedged. "Why? Do I look Breton?"

Blonde Guy chuckled, but there was little humor in it, given their situation. "About as much as I look like a Nord," he said. "And what about you, Imperial?" he turned to the young man across the cart from him. "What's your name? What village are you from?"

"Village?" he repeated stupidly. Des Moines was hardly a village!

"Yes, I'm Ralof, from Riverwood. Where are _you_ from, horse thief?" he asked the little man next to him.

"Why should you care?" the man sneered sourly.

Blonde Guy shrugged. "A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

There was a brief pause as the little man seemed to struggle with his conscience and finally replied. "I'm Lokir," he offered. "I'm from Rorikstead."

Ralof turned back to the young man with the hangover, eyeing him expectantly.

"I—" he began, then paused. None of those towns sounded familiar to him. Just how far from home was he? "My name is Mark…uh—" he stopped again, unable to remember his last name, but sure it began with an "s". He shrugged helplessly. "I can't remember where I'm from," he ended lamely.

"Marcus, eh?" Ralof mused. "I thought you looked Imperial." He spat on the floor of the cart. "Turning against their own kind, now, are they? Figures."

"I'm not—" he began, intending to say "I'm not an Imperial", but Lokir broke in.

"What's wrong with _him_?" he jibed, indicating Gagged Guy.

At this Ralof grew a little irritated. "Watch your mouth!" he warned the little man. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King of Skyrim!"

Lokir's response was lost as Marcus stared at Gagged Guy – or rather, Ulfric Stormcloak. A real king? It couldn't be. The only royalty these days were over in Europe, and none of these people sounded European, except maybe Ralof. He might be Scandinavian. Marcus couldn't remember who the King of Sweden was currently, but he was sure it wasn't anyone named Ulfric Stormcloak. Maybe these people were part of some group of re-enactors or…what was it his daughter called them, cosplayers? That was it. These had to be cosplayers, and somehow he'd gotten caught up in their game.

Feeling a bit more confident, now that he'd figured it out, Marcus decided to play along, at least until they got where they were going so he could borrow a cell phone and call his wife to come and get him. She would be furious with him for running off and leaving her at the party like that.

The girl on the end—Tamsyn, was it?—seemed to be shrinking into herself, drawing her knees up and lowering her forehead until it touched them. Maybe she'd been shanghaied into this cosplay thing, too, and didn't belong here anymore than he did.

They were approaching a small, walled enclosure now, that resembled a sort of Renaissance Fairegrounds, but he'd never seen anything this elaborate before. Those towers looked like they were made of real stone, not just faced with it. The people running around inside were all dressed in costume, there were no obvious tourists here. Marcus hoped there was some kind of main office here, but first he had to get the ropes off his wrists.

"Okay," he said, "I think this has gone far enough. Can you get these ropes off me so I can make a phone call?"

The three men stared at him in disbelief before Ralof burst out laughing. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Fool!" he exclaimed. "Do you think if I could do that I'd still be here?"

He noticed the girl staring at him, and she was starting to creep him out a bit. Yeah, she was kind of cute, but he was married, and had been for almost forty years. He wasn't interested in a fling with a much younger woman.

Irritated beyond belief, Marcus turned to the driver of the horse cart. "Where can I find the main office here?" he asked. "I need to call my wife and get a ride home."

"You're mad!" the man exclaimed. "You're not going anywhere, Stormcloak scum!" He hauled back sharply on the reins and the horse snorted and stopped suddenly, throwing Marcus back down on the bench and against Ulfric, who scowled and grunted at him around the gag, shouldering him away.

The next thing he knew, he was being pulled roughly off the cart and made to stand with the others while a man and woman in brown leather and steel armor read names off a list. Ulfric went first, then Ralof. When Lokir's name was called, he panicked.

"No! I'm not a rebel!" he screamed. "You're not going to kill me!"

"Lokir, don't!" the girl cried as the skinny little man made a bolt for the gate.

"Archers!" the female guard called. She seemed to be in charge, because several men with bows took aim and shot Lokir in the back as he ran. He plummeted face-first into the road, and even from here, Marcus could see the blood pooling.

Appalled, he gasped, "They killed him! Those sons-of-bitches killed him!"

The girl hung her head. "I tried to warn him," she whispered. "I knew he'd never make it to the gate."

"You there," the male guard said, directing his gaze toward Marcus. "Who are you?"

Numbly, Marcus thought about not answering, but wasn't sure they wouldn't treat him the same way they had poor Lokir. "Marcus," he mumbled. The man with the papers shuffled through them, confused.

"You a renegade, then? Turning against your own people?" He turned to the woman next to him. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list. She's not, either," he added, pointing to the girl. "There are no more names."

For a brief moment, hope flared in Marcus. Maybe Lokir's death was just faked. A pouch of fake blood under the costume, a few rubber-headed arrows, and all he had to do was lie there until the "guests" were pardoned and freed. Marcus didn't know who was responsible for this, but it had to have been someone at work; someone had set him up big time, and he'd nearly fallen for it.

"Forget the list," the Captain ordered. "They go to the block."

WHAT?

"You can't be serious!" Marcus protested as he was dragged off. The girl followed behind, head bowed and silent tears coursing down her cheeks. "Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, it's in really bad taste! I want to speak to your director, or supervisor, or whoever it is who's in charge here!"

"General Tullius is a bit busy right now, rebel scum," the guard pushing him snarled. "And if you want to enjoy these last few moments of your miserable, worthless life relatively pain-free, you'll shut your mouth!"

"You've got some nerve!" Marcus shouted. "I demand to speak to this Tullius fellow! Where is—"

_SMACK!_

Marcus reeled and the world spun in front of him as the guard back-handed him.

"I said shut the fuck up!" the man said dangerously, drawing his sword. "Or the headsman will have one less rebel to behead!"

_Behead? Did he say behead?_ Cold fear gripped Marcus' gut. Just past the man's shoulder was a stone block splattered with blood. A shallow depression in the center was just about the right size for a human head. Nearby, a bare-chested man in black leather straps holding a long, evil-looking axe stood at the ready.

Frantically looking around for any kind of evidence that this was all just a bad play he'd wandered into, he locked eyes with the red-haired girl a few feet away.

"Are they serious?" he whispered.

She nodded. "Deadly," she whispered back. Her face looked bleak and her eyes were haunted.

"But they can't!" he hissed. "We haven't done anything!"

"They're Imperials," she said in a low voice, as if that explained it. "They don't care."

"Well someone's got to stop them!" Marcus said, panic rising in his voice in spite of his efforts to keep it down.

She shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze. The look on her face was one of resigned terror.

"There has to be something we can do!" Marcus insisted.

"Pray to any gods you believe in for a miracle," was all she said.

The one they called General Tullius had been speaking to the gagged man, Ulfric Stormcloak, and now a woman in a long gold robe was giving some kind of benediction. Or at least, she was, until one of the men in blue and bronze stepped forward.

"Oh for the love of Talos," he sneered. "Let's just get on with it, shall we?"

Offended, the robed woman said stiffly, "As you wish."

The man stalked over the stone block and stood in front of it.

"Come on," he said sarcastically. "I don't have all day."

A strange sound filled the air, echoing around the hills surrounding the village. It was something he'd never heard before, and had no idea what made it. The girl seemed to stiffen, her face betraying genuine horror. Her mouth was moving, and he caught her whispered words.

"No, please, wake up! You've got to wake up!"

So she thought this was a dream, too? If so, it was the most real dream he'd ever experienced.

He turned back just in time to hear the condemned man call out, "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?"

And then the axe fell.

Marcus felt his stomach heave at the sight. One moment there was a living man kneeling there, his head on the block, and the next moment, blood was spurting everywhere as the head rolled one way, eyes still open, and the body rolled the other. Getting shot with an arrow could have been faked, but there was no faking a decapitation of this magnitude.

He heard the girl getting quietly sick nearby. He would have joined her, but the Captain said, "Next, the renegade!" and he felt himself pushed from behind.

The strange cry came again, and even the crowd was looking around nervously. But another firm push from behind, and Marcus found himself being propelled to stand in front of the block, facing Mr. Name-Taker, who looked at him in sympathy.

He should fight his way free, he thought. But they'd shot down that little guy for running away. If he tried, he knew he wouldn't get far. He'd already tried to go over their heads, but as the red-haired girl had said, they didn't seem to care that he was innocent of any crime.

Marcus felt a foot kick his knees from behind and he dropped to them. Then the foot was on his back, pushing him down on the stone block that was still warm and sticky from its previous victim.

_Why?_ he thought. _I haven't done anything! Lynne, I'm sorry!_ He sent a private prayer out to his wife, accepting for the first time, that he was really going to die here, still not understanding what had happened to him.

A dark shape swooped over the village and landed on the stone tower above him. He must already be having delusions, because it looked for all the world like a huge, black dragon.

The dragon's maw opened, and he could swear he heard it shout out words.

"_STRUN BAH FILMAH!"_

Almost immediately, the skies darkened, clouds roiled across the upper atmosphere, and huge flaming chunks of rock began raining down. The percussion of the dragon's roar knocked everyone still standing to the ground, including the headsman, who lost his grip on his axe. It fell to one side, narrowing missing Marcus as he lay there, bound and helpless.

"What in Oblivion is _that_?" Marcus heard someone cry out, and utter chaos ensued. A second percussive roar knocked him clear of the stone, but something hit his head in the process, bringing his headache back with a vengeance. His vision blurred, and for several heartbeats he was tempted to just lay there and let the end take him.

"Imperial! Come on, get up!" he heard a familiar voice. Ralof, that was his name. Peering through bleary eyes he could barely make out the man standing a few yards away, his hands no longer bound. Just behind him was a bright flash of red. The girl, Tamsyn, was hovering there, waiting. Waiting for what? She should be getting the hell out of Dodge, if she was smart.

"Come on!" Ralof urged again. "If you love the gods, get up and follow me!"

Well, he didn't know about gods, but he did love God, and he certainly wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to postpone a meeting with Him. Somehow he staggered to his feet and lurched after Ralof and the red-haired girl, but the action made him sick and dizzy. He narrowly avoided becoming a smear on the pavement as a boulder the size of a beach ball smashed into the ground not two feet away. It shattered, and bits of flaming rock went everywhere, cutting him deeply on the legs. He stumbled, but got back on his feet and hobbled after Ralof.

Overhead, the dragon was swooping low, diving down to grab people and lift them high into the air, only to drop them from dozens of yards up. Not many survived that. Every time it breathed out a gout of flame, Marcus heard the words, _YOL TOOR SHUL!_

Finally, he made the relative safety of a stone tower and fell to his knees in exhaustion.

"By Ysmir, that was a dragon," Ralof was saying. "Just like in the old legends!"

"Legends don't burn down villages," came a deep, authoritative voice, and Marcus looked up to see Gagged Guy, only this time without the gag. Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof had called him, the Jarl of Windhelm. If memory served Marcus correctly, a Jarl was some kind of Scandinavian mayor or lord.

He was about to ask this Jarl if he knew what was going on when the entire tower shook, and bits of dust and stone rained down on everyone. Panicked voices raised, and Marcus realized there were others here as well, all wearing the blue and bronze armor that Ralof sported. Stormcloaks, one of the brown-clad guards had called them. They must have taken their name after this Jarl fellow.

"We need to move, _now_!" Jarl Ulfric ordered. "Head up the stairs. We'll see if we can escape through the roof."

"What? With the dragon still out there?" Marcus scoffed. "Are you insane?"

"I'd rather face the dragon out there with a sword in my hand than to wait here to be recaptured by those Imperial milk-drinkers," Ulfric sneered, looking Marcus up and down. "I'm not afraid to commend my soul to Sovngarde, _boy_. Stay here and wait for your friends to run you through, if you wish." His voice was heavy with censure and ridicule, and Marcus was about to protest he was no boy, but he stopped. He had no idea how old he appeared to these people. Clearly they thought he was one of the guys in brown, though, and that made him the enemy in their eyes. But as the tower shook again he knew this was no time to argue semantics or allegiances.

"These people are hurt, Jarl Ulfric," the girl said, speaking for the first time since Marcus entered the tower. She spoke from where she knelt, her hand gently soothing the forehead of one of the Stormcloak soldiers. "Some of them are seriously injured. They can't be moved."

The Jarl's eyes softened for a moment, looking at her. "I'm sorry my lady," he said gently. "We have to get out of here, and they will only slow us down. But you are very kind to think of them. Very kind, and very beautiful."

The girl blushed.

_Damn the man! _Marcus thought. _He's twice her age at least, and there are more important things to think about right now than getting into her pants._

"Come on," Ralof urged him. "Up the stairs! I'll be right behind you."

He offered his hand to the girl, and Marcus realized with shame that he should have done that himself. Ralof helped her to her feet, then ushered them both up the stairs. Ulfric remained behind, giving orders to those still able to defend their injured comrades.

Halfway up, however, the girl stopped, twisting her body to the side with her bound arms extended in front of her to keep them from passing her.

"Tamsyn, what-?" Ralof began, but she cut him off.

"Wait!" she cried. "The dragon is going to burst through here!"

"How could you know—" both men spoke at once, and suddenly the side wall of the tower was shattered, dust and debris flying everywhere, and a large, black snout was forced into the hole.

"_YOL TOOR!"_

The heat was so intense Marcus felt his skin prickle. He pulled the girl – Tamsyn, he reminded himself – back, but her skin was already blistering.

"Augh!" she cried out as the dragon retreated to find other prey.

"Tamsyn!" Ralof gasped, more than a little scorched himself. "Are you alright?"

She hissed in pain. "I will be," she whimpered. "Give me a moment…"

"We should go back downstairs," Marcus said. "The top of the tower's collapsed. We can't get out that way."

"We can't go back out into the streets," Ralof insisted. "If the dragon doesn't get us, the Imperials will!" He peered through the opening in the side of the tower left by the dragon. "There! See that over there? That's the attic of the inn next door. Jump through the hole here to the attic. I'll be right behind you both."

"Are you crazy?" Marcus protested. "It's a good ten feet away!"

"You don't have any other choice!" Ralof scowled. "Unless you want to take your chances with the Empire, or the dragon."

Irritated and hurting, Marcus gauged the distance and backed up a couple feet. It wouldn't be a very long approach, but for some reason, he felt younger and stronger – despite his injuries – than he had in quite a long time. "Alright," he muttered. "I'll do it."

"Tamsyn?" Ralof turned to the girl. "Can you make it?"

She looked out of the hole and shook her head. "No," she said. "You'll have to toss me."

"What?" Ralof looked perplexed.

"You'll have to give me a boost," she said firmly. "It's too far for me to jump. I'll never make it."

"I know what she means," Marcus said. "Would it help if we both tossed you? I'd be right behind you."

She looked at both of them very carefully, then nodded. "Yes, if you both swing me across, I should be able to make it."

In a matter of seconds, both men got on either side of her, scooped her up under her arms, and swung gently at first, then stronger.

"On three," said Marcus. "One. Two. THREE!"

They released her at the same moment, and the red-haired girl sailed through the air, landing lightly in the attic. Marcus backed up as far as he could and ran for the opening, leaping out into the intervening space.

He landed hard and started to fall, but turned it into a roll. That was one thing he remembered from his martial arts classes.

"Show off," the girl muttered, then looked back for Ralof.

Flames were licking up the side of the building, and they couldn't see the Stormcloak soldier through the smoke.

"Ralof!" Marcus called, coughing as he got a lungful of smoke. _"Ralof!"_

"We have to go," Tamsyn said, pulling at his arm.

"But Ralof didn't jump yet," he protested.

"I don't think he's going to," she insisted. "The building's on fire. We have to go _now_!"

Reluctantly, Marcus allowed himself to be led to a hole in the attic floor where stairs used to be. They lay smashed and burned on the first floor, pushed to one side, no doubt from the percussive force of the dragon's roaring.

Tamsyn dropped lightly down to the first floor, despite her bound hands, and Marcus followed her. At the open doorway the full enormity of the situation met their eyes. What had once been a quiet, sleepy village with stone towers and wooden buildings surrounded by a wooden palisade was now a scene from hell. Not one residence or business remained intact and standing, and the towers themselves were as battered as if an army with catapults had been knocking at their door for a week. Fire and smoke was everywhere, scorching their skin and stinging their eyes, making them cough and choke from the smell of charred wood and flesh.

"This way," Tamsyn said, pulling him along. How she could tell which way to go was a mystery to Marcus. He wasn't even sure which was north, east, south or west in all the confusion, much less in which direction the main gate lay.

Suddenly, overhead, a black shadow swooped low and the people still out on the streets, fleeing for their lives, screamed and panicked, stampeding as fast as they could in the opposite direction. The dragon landed at the far end of the street, just beyond a burning house. It looked their way and took a long, indrawn breath.

He'd seen the _Hobbit_ movies. He knew what was coming next.

"_Get back!"_ he cried, pulling Tamsyn out of the way behind the building where an elderly man was crouched, hiding. One of the Imperial soldiers – it was List-Checker, he noticed obliquely – was pulling a boy to the side as well.

"Torolf! Hurry!" he called to a man several yards away, but just then the dragon unleashed its deadly breath, and the Imperial was forced to take refuge behind the building with the rest of them.

"_PAPA!"_ screamed the little boy, and Tamsyn immediately knelt and put her arms around him to keep him from running out to his father. She cradled his head against her breast as the Imperial noticed them all there.

"Still alive prisoners?" he blinked in surprise. "You'd better stick with me if you want to stay that way." He carefully pulled the boy from Tamsyn's arms and handed him over to the older man. "Gunnar, keep the boy safe. I have to find General Tullius and organize the defense."

"Gods bless you, Hadvar," Gunnar mumbled, comforting the sobbing child as best he could.

"You two, come with me," Hadvar said. He took off at a run, in the direction the dragon had been, but the huge lizard had already launched itself into the skies once more to find easy targets upon which to unleash its deadly wrath.

_Who did I piss off?_ Marcus bemoaned to himself.

He trotted after Hadvar and Tamsyn. Once again, the girl seemed to display an uncanny sixth sense, for she stopped just after they leaped off the foundation of a destroyed home and crouched against the stone wall just as Hadvar exclaimed, "Stay close to the wall!" A heartbeat later, the dragon settled itself briefly on top of the wall, its curving talons of death just inches from Marcus' face. A few seconds later, after flaming a group of soldiers – Marcus couldn't see whether they were Imperial or Stormcloak, and it really didn't matter – the dragon buffeted them with the downbeat of its colossal leathery wings as it clawed its way back into the air.

Finally they emerged into a wider street, following their Imperial escort…captor…savior? Several yards away, Marcus could see a large gatehouse. The dragon swooped down again and grabbed a soldier off the wall, taking him high into the air. In horrific fascination, Marcus watched the man plummet to his death when the beast released him.

"Ralof, you damned traitor!" Hadvar yelled.

Marcus snapped out of his misery long enough to see Ralof not twenty feet away.

"We're escaping, Hadvar," Ralof sneered. "You're not stopping us this time!"

"Fine, then," Hadvar growled in frustration. Escaping prisoners were a bit low on the list of priorities at the moment. "I hope the damned dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" He turned to Marcus and Tamsyn. "Come on, you two, follow me!" He took off toward the gatehouse, not looking back to see if they followed.

"Tamsyn!" Ralof called. "Over here! With me, both of you!" _Nice to be included,_ Marcus thought sourly. The man still probably thought he was an Imperial spy.

Tamsyn looked torn, looking back and forth between Hadvar's retreating back and Ralof beckoning them his way. _Oh, for crying out loud,_ Marcus thought. _This is no time to be torn between two lovers._ Not that he thought they were, but he assumed she couldn't make up her mind between them.

"Well?" he demanded.

She gave him a look of pure exasperation and made up her mind. She moved towards Ralof and Marcus followed her. Good. He didn't exactly have anything against Hadvar; the man _did_ get them through the rest of the village to this point. But he was clearly working for the side that wanted to relieve Marcus of his head, and that was a bit much to ignore.

They made it inside another stone tower, and Marcus felt some of the tension leave him. It was quiet in here, and seemed relatively safe against the dragon. Perhaps they could wait the beast out until it left.

Perhaps.

Ralof moved across the floor to something lying next to a rude, wooden table. It was a body, he noticed dully. One of many he'd seen today. This one was wearing what he had begun to think of as "Stormcloak armor" in his mind. Ralof seemed particularly moved by this one, however.

"He was my friend," he told Marcus and Tamsyn quietly. "We came up through the ranks together." He put his hand over the man's eyes and murmured solemnly, "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, my friend."

He stood then and drew his knife. After all he'd been through today, Marcus was half-tempted to ask Ralof to send him to this Sovngarde. It seemed to be their word for heaven, and he was ready to make the trip now. But Ralof only smiled and said, "Come on over here, both of you. Let me get those bonds off."

It a matter of minutes, they were freed, and Marcus rubbed the chafed spots on his wrists where the ropes had rubbed him raw. Tamsyn looked to be in worse shape, as her skin was reddened and blistered, but she gave a sigh of relief and smiled, making several curious gestures with her hands. Warm light began to glow from them, and suffuse her entire body. The blisters disappeared and her skin returned to a normal, healthy color. In a moment, she looked refreshed and ready to go, despite wearing a ragged tunic and with feet wrapped only in cloth.

"That's better," she breathed.

"What did you just do?" Marcus asked, dumbfounded, while Ralof snorted.

"A mage, eh? I'd heard Bretons were good at magic. I don't care much for it myself, but Restoration's nice to know." The way he said "Restoration" even made it _sound_ capitalized.

"I healed myself," Tamsyn said, matter-of-factly, looking at him slightly puzzled. "I thought you knew most Bretons know magic of one kind or another."

Marcus shook his head. "Why would I know that? And anyway, can you do that for me?" His voice raised hopefully, but the girl shook her head in apology.

"That's a more complicated spell," she said, almost sadly. "I don't know that one. I can only heal myself."

Marcus snorted derisively. "Figures," he muttered. Ralof shot him a dark look, but said evenly, "You may as well take Gunjar's armor and axe. He won't be needing them anymore." He turned back to Tamsyn and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry there isn't anything for you, but you're just a little bit of a girl. Gunjar's armor is way too big for you."

"That's alright," she said kindly. "I'm sure we'll find something else I can wear, if we can get out of here. Go ahead and put the armor on, Marcus. You'll need the protection. Don't forget the boots and bracers, either."

"I know what I'm doing," he said irritably. "Turn your backs, both of you. I'm not stripping down in front of people I don't know."

The girl turned pink and immediately turned around. Ralof snorted in disgust, but turned his back as well. As soon as Marcus got the armor on he felt a little better. At least now he had some kind of protection against the elements. He felt bad about his attitude toward Tamsyn, though, and vowed to himself to try to make it up to her somehow.

In the meantime, Ralof had attempted to open on of the two gates that sat opposite each other on the round tower walls, but it was firmly in place, with no kind of chain or lever to raise it.

"I'm sure this is the way out," he told Tamsyn, "but it's locked, and the other one leads back to the barracks. We don't want to go that way."

"It's also locked," Tamsyn said. "I can just see a lever on the other side, but it's just out of reach. I'm sure that was planned."

"Give that axe a few swings," he told Marcus, when he saw him standing there, looking lost.

"What, you mean, like this?" Marcus flailed the axe around in front of him, as he'd seen actors do in movies.

Ralof rolled his eyes. "No, no, no. That's all wrong, stop that," he ordered. "That's a good way to leave yourself wide open to attack. Haven't you ever used an axe before?"

"Not since my Boy Scout days," Marcus admitted, "and then only to chop wood."

Ralof let out an exasperated breath. "Chopping up a man who's coming at you intent on killing you isn't like chopping wood," he said firmly. "We haven't got a lot of time," the Stormcloak continued. "We need to keep moving and get out of here, so watch carefully."

The five-minute tutorial wasn't nearly long enough, but Tamsyn had hissed at them that she'd heard voices from the other side of the gate.

"It's probably Imperials," she said in hushed tones. "You two stand on either side of the gate. They won't see you there."

"What are you going to do?" Marcus asked.

"Nothing, if they're friendly," she answered. "But even if they're hostile, they'll be able to open the gate. I'll be the bait to draw them in. I'm going to cast a spell, so hang back, then come at them from both sides. They won't know what hit them."

Ralof was grinning in admiration. "It's a good plan," he approved. He looked at Marcus and the smile left his face. "Don't mess this up, boy, understand?"

It was on the tip of Marcus' tongue to retort he was hardly a boy anymore, but he heard voices approaching. He swallowed his pride and stepped back to one side of the gate, with Ralof on the other.

It worked beautifully. Imperial soldiers saw Tamsyn standing in the middle of the room, looking scared and lost.

"It's one of the escaped prisoners!" Marcus her a woman say. "Get that gate open." Cold fury clenched his gut. It was the Imperial Captain who had ordered him to his death despite having done nothing to deserve it. He gripped the axe tighter as the gate lifted.

He was about to rush in, but a glance at the red-haired girl held him in his tracks. She gestured, and a jet of flames erupted from both hands, engulfing the three Imperials. Screaming horribly, they writhed to escape the fire.

"_Now!_" Ralof cried, swooping in with his axe.

Marcus could barely remember reacting. Instinct took over, and he targeted the Imperial Captain. The next several minutes were a blur as he swung the iron cleaver, blocked the Captain's blows and finally sliced across her midsection so hard he almost bifurcated her.

When he finally came to his senses he was standing over her body, breathing hard, sweat and blood – her blood, not his – dripping down his face. Ralof had taken care of the other two Imperials. He looked at Marcus and nodded grudging approval.

"You learn fast, boy," he commented. "Your technique needs a little work, but as a very wise man once said, 'the best techniques are passed on by the survivors,' so I guess it worked for you."

Marcus felt inordinately pleased by the praise. He'd managed to impress Ralof, at least. Still, he had killed someone. Granted, she would have killed him if she'd been given the chance, but it didn't alleviate the guilt he felt. Tamsyn looked troubled, too, and he wondered if she was going to throw up. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had.

"Let's see if they have a key for the other gate over there," Ralof said, rummaging through the bodies. Marcus couldn't take his eyes off the shiny, steel sword the Captain had carried. "Go ahead, take it," Ralof suggested. "You can't be any worse with a sword than you are with an axe."

Refusing to rise to the bait, Marcus took the sword and a helmet. The Captain's armor looked better than his, but he didn't want to take the time to change out, and he sure didn't want anyone on Ralof's side thinking he was with the Imperials.

Ralof got the opposite gate open, but Tamsyn asked him to wait a moment, and disappeared down the corridor from which the Imperials had come. She returned a few moments later with a small number of coins, some of which she offered to Ralof and Marcus.

"I don't need them," Ralof said. "You two take them. I'm sure you can use them."

"Thank you, Ralof," she smiled, putting her hand on his arms briefly. He gave her a soppy-looking grin – in Marcus' opinion – and ushered her through the gate.

At one point they found themselves in a torture chamber, straight out of a really bad B-movie, and after a quick skirmish with the head torturer and his assistant, were able to loot the place of its valuables. Tamsyn showed some skill in picking locks, opening one cage that had a dead man in robes inside. She insisted on taking a few moments to strip him down to his loincloth, declaring she wasn't going to wear her ragged tunic any longer than necessary.

Privately, Marcus wondered why she just didn't take some of the armor off the dead soldiers; it would have protected her better, but the girl was frustratingly insistent. She even went as far as opening the other cages "just for practice", she said, though Marcus wanted to scream at the delay and Ralof waited patiently nearby. Nevertheless, they both obligingly turned their backs while she changed. He had to admit, the robes and hood were a better fit than some of the armor might have been. She looked much happier, too. It was an improvement.

The rest of their escape was a nightmare from which Marcus kept hoping he wake. There were more soldiers to fight, falling debris to avoid, spiders the size of a Buick and just when he thought it couldn't get worse, a large bear blocking the exit out of the underground tunnel.

Ralof didn't want to disturb it, and Marcus couldn't blame him. No one in their right mind would want to. Clearly, Tamsyn wasn't in her right mind. She made some weird gesture with her hand and a ghostly-looking wolf sprang forth. She launched an arrow from a bow she'd picked up, crouching the whole time, and woke the damn thing up!

"I guess you're not the sneaking type, eh?" Ralof drawled.

"Are you out of your flipping mind?" Marcus demanded. He backed away furiously as the bear lumbered forward, but the ghost-wolf leaped at it and began tearing into it. The bear roared and turned to face the more immediate threat, swiping at the wolf with its huge, clawed paws. It struck twice…three times…and the wolf crackled into non-existence.

But the girl kept calmly shooting at it with the arrows she'd picked up, paused to bring back her ghost-wolf, and then continued to shoot, staying out of range of the beast. Ralof charged in with his axe and in a matter of moments it was all over. The red-haired girl calmly took a dagger from her waist and cut off the bear's claws.

"Gonna make a necklace out of them?" Marcus asked her nastily.

"No," she replied calmly. "They're potion ingredients."

"You're kidding."

"She's right," Ralof nodded. "I don't practice it myself, but I'm grateful to those who do. Potions that can restore your health or stamina are very useful on the battlefield."

Marcus turned back to Tamsyn. "Is that why you've been picking up bits and pieces of stuff as we've gone along?" he asked. "The mushrooms and garlic and spider venom and everything else?" She nodded, turning to follow Ralof out of the tunnel.

"Bear claws are a component of a potion that will restore your stamina," she informed him as they walked. "The bone meal is used to help resist fire; the garlic helps to resist poison, and can also help my magicka regenerate faster."

"Magicka?" Marcus asked, puzzled.

She gave a heavy sigh. "The internal energy I use to cast spells, like shooting flames out of my hands, or summoning that wolf familiar you saw, or casting a healing spell on myself. Every time I cast a spell, it uses up that reservoir of magical energy, and I have to wait for it to fill back up again."

"And potions will make it fill up faster?"

She nodded again. "Or they can restore your stamina, make you feel rested and ready to go again. And they can heal you of injuries, just as if you've had a healing spell cast on you. If you can't do magic yourself, it's always good to learn some basic alchemy, so you can make your own potions. Otherwise you have to buy them."

They had reached the tunnel exit by this time and Marcus was never so glad to see daylight in his life. He practically ran out of the cave, but Ralof stopped him several yards ahead and pushed him down.

"Wait!" he hissed, looking overhead. A huge black shadow passed over them, and they heard the dragon roar as it flew by, heading north. Only when it was gone did Ralof straighten and breathe a sigh of relief.

"Looks like he's finally gone for good," he commented. He looked them both over before seeming to make up his mind about something.

"We should probably split up," he said finally. "I've got to rejoin Ulfric Stormcloak. My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road a bit. I'm sure she'll help you out."

This suited Marcus just fine. He knew Ralof didn't think much of him.

"What?" Tamsyn said incredulously. "You're just going to abandon us?"

"I'm not—" Ralof began.

"What if we run into more soldiers?" she demanded. "We could be captured all over again!"

"You look like you can handle yourself," Ralof squirmed, though Marcus noticed with irritation that he'd said "yourself" and not "yourselves".

"And you think your sister will just take our word for it that we know you?" Tamsyn pressed, hands on her hips.

"But I—" Ralof let out a sigh of resignation. "Okay, okay," he chuckled. "I'll take you to Riverwood myself and introduce you to my sister. It's not entirely safe for me, but I owe you that much."

Tamsyn smiled happily and thanked him.

"Are you sure you don't know my sister?" he grinned ruefully. "You sounded just like her!"

The trip to Riverwood was relatively uneventful. Ralof pointed out an ancient ruin on the side of a mountain across the river from them, and showed them three ancient standing stones. Tamsyn immediately went over and touched the one that had a carving of a wizard on it. The hole in the center of the stone began to glow and a beam of light shot into the air.

"Go ahead, Marcus," she urged him. "Pick one. You might just get a blessing from it, as I did."

He sincerely doubted it. He'd long since given up any hope that this was some kind of re-enactment company and this was some huge, elaborate set. Now he only hoped to reach this Riverwood and see if he could find out exactly where he was. In a gesture that was more compliance than acceptance, he put his hand on the stone with the carving of the fighter on it.

Shock tingled through him as the stone warmed under his hand, the hole in the center glowed, and a blue-white beam of light shot straight to the heavens.

He returned to where Ralof and Tamsyn were waiting. She was smiling, but said nothing.

Ralof had a curious look on his face; it was difficult to tell what he was thinking. "Warrior, eh? Hmph. We'll see." Without another word he turned and headed down the road toward Riverwood.

"What just happened?" Marcus asked.

"You just received a blessing from the Divines," Tamsyn told him. "You may find out very soon that your combat skills will improve." With that cryptic phrase, she turned to follow Ralof, and Marcus could do nothing else but tag along behind.

This had been the strangest day ever. He only hoped when he woke up tomorrow morning that it was in his own bed, next to his wife, with his familiar, ordinary world surrounding him once more. These people were crazy!

_**[Notes: **__ So there you have it. Someone from our world finds themselves in Skyrim. Not the first fan fiction out there with that theme. This is my take on it. I felt Marcus needed someone to help him along in the early stages, so I've dropped in Tamsyn (one of my other characters). I got to thinking as I developed this story, what if I found myself in Skyrim, and I _wasn't_ the Dragonborn? Next up: Riverwood.]_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Is This Just Fantasy?**

_**[Author's Note:**__ Marcus is heavily into denial about his situation, so he's being a jerk about it, but give him time. He's had a rough couple of days.]_

_[See the end of the chapter for more __**Notes**__.]_

Riverwood wasn't much bigger than Helgen had been. There was a smithy, a general goods store, an inn, a smattering of homes, and a large lumber mill. It was to the mill that Ralof headed. Short introductions were made all around, and Ralof told his sister Gerdur and her husband Hod about the dragon attack that day.

They were appalled and shocked, and very grateful to Marcus and Tamsyn for having helped their kinsman. Gerdur insisted they stay with her family until they were rested up enough to move on.

"I do have a favor to ask," she said, hesitantly. "The Jarl needs to know about what happened at Helgen. If Riverwood comes under attack by dragons, we're defenseless. Would you go to him in Whiterun and beg him to send men here to defend us?"

Marcus said nothing. He really didn't want to get involved. He just wanted to go home. He didn't even know where this Whiterun was, and he sincerely doubted he'd be allowed in to see this Jarl…what did she call him? Balgruuf, that was it.

"Of course we'll go," Tamsyn said before he could stop her. He glared at her and she made a gesture with her face and shoulders that clearly asked, "What?"

"Thank you," Gerdur said gratefully. "I need to get back to the mill before I'm missed."

"I'll let them into the house and…you know…show them where everything is," Hod offered.

Gerdur smirked. "Help them drink all our mead, you mean," she chuckled. She left them to return to the mill, and Tamsyn told them she'd meet them there, she had some things to do.

Marcus followed Ralof and Hod back to the house where Hod broke out some bottles of mead. Now this was more like it! Marcus had never had mead before, but he knew it was a wine made from honey. It went down very smoothly, and he was tempted to overindulge, but he had a feeling he needed to keep his wits about him. On the other hand, maybe if he passed out drunk, he'd wake up back home in his own bed. It was something to think about.

By the time Gerdur returned home, her brother and husband were exchanging all kinds of uproarious stories, with her son Frodnar chiming in now and then about practical jokes he'd pulled. Marcus was chuckling in the corner, but said little. The men tried to draw him out and get him to tell stories of his own, but he didn't know anything he could tell them that wouldn't make them think he was stark raving mad.

Tamsyn returned shortly after Gerdur and began helping her prepare supper, despite Gerdur's insistence she could manage. The two women chatted easily in low voices and very soon served up some hearty beef stew, fresh-baked bread and wedges of some kind of bleu cheese. Marcus didn't realize until he sat down how hungry he was. The mead was going straight to his head, and he thanked his metabolism that he was a quiet drunk, not a boisterous one.

After supper was finished, Gerdur and her family asked their guests again about where they'd come from and what had brought them to Skyrim. Marcus was at a loss for words. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound crazy.

"I'm from High Rock," the red-haired girl said. "I came to Skyrim because I'd heard about the College at Winterhold, and was heading there to study." She looked over at Marcus. With a look of almost apology in her eyes, she invented a background for him on the spot. "Marcus is a mercenary. He's returned recently from Black Marsh, having worked for some Argonian merchants there. Not all Imperials are soldiers, you know," she added as an afterthought.

"And it was just bad luck you both stumbled into that ambush your kinsmen set for us," Ralof nodded to Marcus. "Well, I don't hold much for magic, Tamsyn. Not many Nords do, I think you know. But I'm certainly glad you used it today. Setting that oil alight and burning those damned, faithless Im—uh, I mean, the enemy soldiers—was a stroke of genius!" There was no doubt about the look of admiration in his eyes. So, he had the hots for her, did he? Marcus shrugged inwardly. If they wanted to bump uglies later tonight, that wasn't his business. He had a wife at home to get back to. Except now his traveling companion had practically promised they'd go out of their way to notify some lord about the dragon attacks. Great. Just great.

"Do you know any stories?" the boy, Frodnar, asked. "I've heard all of Uncle Ralof's stories already."

"You haven't heard half of them," Ralof chuckled. "I've got plenty more—"

"But he's too young to hear them!" Gerdur cut in sharply, shooting a glare at her brother.

"Awww, Ma," Frodnar protested.

"We'd better listen to your mother, Frodnar," Ralof grinned. "If she turns me out tonight I could get captured by Imperials!"

"You wouldn't do that, would you Ma?" the boy asked, fearfully.

"No, of course not," Gerdur assured her son, "as long as he behaves himself." Here she turned a withering look on her brother, who just chuckled.

"I know a story," Tamsyn offered.

This lightened the mood, as everyone settled down, and Tamsyn began to speak. It wasn't too long before Marcus realized she was telling them the story of the Disney movie "Mulan" that his daughters had enjoyed when they were younger. Tamsyn changed the names and places, but it was still the story of a young woman who took her father's place when their lord summoned the men to defend the kingdom. He had suspected for most of the day that she was as displaced as he was, that she belonged here in this Skyrim no more than he did, and now he was convinced.

Maybe she knew how they could get home again. It was worth a shot. But before he could think about how to broach the subject, the good food, the warmth of the fire, and his comfortable position stretched out on the floor took their toll after the day he'd been through. He fell asleep before the red-haired girl finished her story.

It was well into the middle of the morning when he woke up. Hod was the only one in the house.

"Where is everyone?" he mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Thought you were going to sleep all day," Hod grinned. "Gerdur's at the mill, Ralof left early to rejoin his company, and that companion of yours, Tamsyn, is outside gathering alchemical ingredients. Or she was, last I saw."

"I didn't mean to sleep so long," Marcus mumbled. "May I have something to eat?"

"Help yourself to some bread and cheese," Hod offered. "I think I've got some ale left over from last night."

"Any coffee?" Marcus asked.

Hod's brow furrowed. "What is that? Some kind of Argonian drink?"

Marcus remembered then that Tamsyn had told them he'd recently worked for some 'Argonians'.

"Yeah," he lied. "It's brewed from a bean; strong, black and very good for helping you wake up."

"We don't have anything like that here," Hod shrugged. "We've got mead or ale."

"I'm not really looking for a hair of the dog this morning," Marcus frowned.

"Stump's outside," Hod said, confused. "But I don't know what you'd want with his hair. It's not like it's an alchemical ingredient."

"Never mind," Marcus said, giving up. "I'll just have some water."

A half-hour later he was outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. Looking around he couldn't see Tamsyn anywhere. A small wave of panic flitted through him. She seemed to know what was going on around here, and he really needed to talk to her. He hoped she hadn't taken off on her own yet.

A ringing sound of hammer on metal caught his ear, and he wandered over to the smithy to ask the blacksmith if he'd seen Tamsyn.

"Tamsyn?" the smith asked. "Small, curvy, red-haired girl?"

"Yeah, that's her," Marcus affirmed. "Have you seen her?"

"She took off a while ago with Faendal."

"Who's Fayendahl?" Marcus asked, mangling the name, and irritated at the girl for abandoning him.

"He works at the mill. Bosmer. Good man, and a fine archer. I heard her ask him for a few pointers, and they headed out of town. That was an hour ago. They should be back soon."

Disgruntled, Marcus fumed silently as he watched the smith, who said his name was Alvor, as the man worked the steel into a fine blade. He realized he'd left the sword he'd used in Helgen back at Hod and Gerdur's house. Something told him that might not have been a very smart idea. He retraced his steps and knocked on the door. Hod answered and let him in, waiting quietly while he gathered his meagre belongings together.

"Are you and the girl leaving for Whiterun today?" Hod asked him.

"I don't know," Marcus admitted. "I haven't seen her yet to know what she wants to do."

Hod chuckled. "We always wait on the women to make a decision, don't we?" he grinned. Marcus allowed a shared smile.

"Yeah, my wife's like that, too," he said.

Hod looked confused. "I thought we were talking about your wife. Aren't you two married?"

Marcus blinked. "Who? Tamsyn and I?" He shook his head vehemently. "No, we're not. We just escaped Helgen together. We're not married!"

Hod stumbled to apologize. "I'm sorry, I thought—never mind. Well, Ralof will be pleased. I know he was taken with her, but thought you two were together. He left before he could make a fool of himself."

Marcus gave a mental shake of his head. So that's what was bothering the big blonde guy. He thought he was encroaching! Too bad he didn't say anything earlier. Marcus would have been only too happy to set him straight.

It occurred to him to wonder if Tamsyn would be scorned for traveling with him as an unmarried woman. He didn't want her to get hurt or ruin her reputation. He didn't know what the moral temperature of this place happened to be. Blowing out a breath in a heavy sigh, Marcus shouldered his pack and said good-bye and thanks to Hod, leaving the house and heading back out to the main street.

He decided to wait at the smithy, since it provided a clear view of the road out of town, where Alvor had indicated Tamsyn had gone with this 'Fayendahl' character. As he chatted with the smith, however, he became more and more engrossed in the man's work, and before he knew it, he was asking if he could help in any way.

Alvor was more than happy to take Marcus up on his offer, and immediately put him to work crafting an iron dagger. It was a lot harder than Marcus thought it would be, and took much longer than he expected, to the point where he forgot to watch the road. When Alvor was finally satisfied with the dagger, after Marcus sharpened it on the grindstone, he showed the younger man how to work with tanned leather to create a helmet made of cured hide. A few more pointers on getting the fit right, and Marcus donned the helmet for the first time, proud of himself, and impressed with how well it fit his head.

"Nice job," he heard a woman say and turned to see Tamsyn standing nearby. With a shock he realized it was nearly evening. He had worked the rest of the day away at the forge!

"How long have you been there?" he demanded. "And where the hell have you been?"

"Picking up some things to sell," she said. "Faendal and I went to a mine nearby taken over by bandits and cleared it out. They had a bunch of useful things there."

"And you didn't tell me?" He knew he sounded peevish, but he didn't care.

"You were sleeping," she said bluntly. "Don't worry. Half the proceeds are yours. We'll need the coin to buy better weapons, armor and spell books."

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, it's almost night now," Marcus said sarcastically. "It's too late to keep your promise to Gerdur and go to Whiterun."

"We're not going to Whiterun just yet," Tamsyn replied.

"We're not?" Marcus asked, perplexed. "Why not?"

"Because there's a couple of things we need to retrieve from Bleak Falls Barrow," she said, leading him away from the smithy. "Come on, let's go sit by the river. We've got some things to talk about."

"Suits me fine," he grumbled. "I've got a lot of questions for you, too."

"I've no doubt about that," she said wryly.

Tamsyn led Marcus down to the river's edge where the rushing roar of the water would make eavesdropping difficult for anyone casually walking by.

"Okay," Marcus said, unable to keep the anger from his voice. "What the hell is going on here? Where are we? Who are you? And how do I get back home again?"

"One question at a time, please!" the red-haired girl protested. "First of all, you're in 'Skyrim'. The…video game?" she added when he looked confused.

He stared at her for a long moment. "I don't know what that means," he said finally.

"Didn't you ever play it?" she asked.

Marcus shook his head. "No. Never heard of it. Maybe my kids might have, but we didn't really get into that. So you're from the same place I came from?" he asked.

"I'm going to guess that I am," she said. "In the cart, and before…before the dragon attacked, you started asking to speak to supervisors and borrow a phone. I guess you thought we were at some Renaissance Faire or something."

"I don't know what I thought," he muttered. "I certainly never expected they'd actually behead me! Did they really _do_ that?" He turned to her with haunted eyes. "Is all of this _real?_"

Tamsyn's face looked bleak. "They really did it," she said quietly. "And this is our reality now."

"Well not for long," Marcus said brusquely. "How do we get back?"

"I don't think we can," she said, not meeting his eyes.

"I don't believe you!" he said angrily. "You're holding out on me! What aren't you telling me?" He grabbed her by the arm and shook it without realizing it. Inwardly, he was appalled at himself. He'd never hurt anyone in anger before, especially a woman. But right now he was feeling very much lost and afraid, and the fear made him furious with himself.

"Let go, you're hurting me," she said quietly. She didn't resist, but if she had he didn't know what he would have done. As it was, he dropped her arm and put his head in his hands.

"I just want to go home," he sighed. "My wife has to be wondering where I am by now."

"Marcus," she said gently. "What's the last thing you remember before you woke up in that cart yesterday?"

He thought back. In a sudden flash of panic he realized his memories of his former life were becoming harder to grasp.

"We were coming home from a party," he said hesitantly. "Lynne was driving because she hadn't had as much to drink as me." He closed his eyes, shutting out everything around him to try to bring it into focus more clearly, but he couldn't.

"Anything else?" Tamsyn asked softly.

"I'm trying…I can't…quite remember," he whispered, so subdued she had to strain to hear him. "I remember getting into the car. I remember the oncoming headlights seemed awfully bright that night." Whatever he almost grasped slipped away. He slumped in defeat. "I can't remember any more."

The girl next to him said nothing for several moments. "Do you remember how old you were?" she asked. "Or what you did for a living? Where you lived?"

"Yeah, I remember those things," he answered. "I was an IT technician. I lived in Des Moines. I was….I was over fifty, I think. I know we had kids and grandkids. What about you?" Not that he cared very much, given the circumstances, but she had asked about him, so he felt obligated to return the favor.

"I was very old," she said. "I was in a nursing home. No one came to see me. I couldn't get out of my wheelchair without help. I could barely take care of myself."

"That's horrible!" he exclaimed. Looking at her now, she seemed to be no more than nineteen or twenty. It was hard to imagine her as an old woman.

"It wasn't all that bad," the girl replied. "It was a very good nursing home. The staff were very kind. It was an expensive place to live, I guess, so my family must have had money. They made sure I was taken care of, so they didn't have to."

"How could you live like that?" Marcus asked, appalled.

"I had a choice?" she threw him an angry look, but the anger soon faded. "I used to pass the time playing 'Skyrim'. It gave me a virtual escape. I could still manipulate the controller, and there was nothing wrong with my mind. It kept me quiet so the orderlies could take care of the problem residents."

"So that's how you knew to stop on the stairs yesterday?" Marcus asked. "And how you knew what we were going to face before we even got there?"

She nodded. "I played a _lot_ of 'Skyrim', Marcus. And now it looks like we're in the game itself."

"How is that even possible?" he demanded.

Tamsyn shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe the gods have a sense of humor."

"You mean God," he corrected her. "And I don't think He had anything to do with this."

"Don't be so sure," she said cryptically. "For now, let's concentrate on how we can get out of this."

"You've got some ideas?" he asked eagerly. _Anything_ to get out of here and get back to where he belonged.

"I do, but you're not going to like it," the girl replied. "You see, we came here right at the point where the game begins. You wake up a prisoner with an unknown past in a cart with three other men, bound for Helgen and execution. You don't even have a name, race or gender until that Imperial lieutenant, Hadvar, asks who you are, and he sees you're not on his list."

"But we didn't do anything," Marcus protested. "That Captain sent us to the block without even a trial!"

"Because that's how it's scripted in the game," she explained, sighing. "Anyway, when the dragon attacks you're given an opportunity to escape, and to follow either Hadvar or Ralof out of Helgen."

"Hadvar works for the ones who were trying to cut off our heads, remember?"

"Yes, I know, but depending on the choices you make, you can either join the Stormcloaks or the Imperials. There's a lot of back history created for the game that's apparently very real here."

The shadows lengthened as she filled him in on the conflict between the Empire and Skyrim, and how the Aldmeri Dominion fit into it. Marcus shook his head at several points, finally saying, "But this really isn't our fight, is it? I mean, once we figure out a way to get home, none of this will matter."

Tamsyn hesitated. He picked up on that right away.

"Okay, so there's something else you're not telling me," he accused. "Come on, give."

"You're not going to like it," she hedged.

"I haven't liked anything I've seen or heard since I woke up with a mammoth hangover yesterday," he said sourly. "Out with it."

"I think the only way out of this is to beat the game."

He blinked. "You can't be serious."

Tamsyn shrugged helplessly. "It's the best I've got. At least I know enough about the game to know what's ahead. There's just one thing I don't know."

"What's that?"

"The player in the game is supposed to be a hero of Skyrim known as the Dragonborn."

"I repeat my previous question," Marcus said sarcastically.

She sighed in exasperation. "You know, you're acting like this is all my fault. I'm just as much a victim here as you! It doesn't help when you get snide with me."

Immediately he felt ashamed. She was perfectly correct, and he _had_ been acting like an asshole.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely. "Please tell me who or what a Dragonborn is."

So she told him, and Marcus wondered what the writers of the game had been smoking when they created it, but he held his peace while she told him about being able to Shout and having to slay dragons.

"And you think one of us is this Dragonborn?" he inquired finally when she was finished.

"Pretty sure," she said. "After all, I knew Lokir would die. I thought I could change that much, but he panicked and…well…you saw what happened. And Ulfric isn't the Dragonborn in the game, though he _does_ know two of the Dragon Shouts."

"What about Ralof?"

She shook her head. "Ralof is one of the ones who helps get you out of Helgen. He's not the Dragonborn. Quite honestly, it has to be one of us."

"So how do we find that out?" Despite himself, Marcus was curious to know where this would all lead, and Tamsyn seemed to know.

"Well, a chain of events happens from keeping our promise to Gerdur, to alert the Jarl in Whiterun about the attack on Helgen."

"Won't they already know?" Marcus asked. "That happened yesterday."

"But there were very few survivors," Tamsyn pointed out. "General Tullius and the Thalmor who were with him get out alive, because you meet them later in the game. But they're not going to make a special trip to Whiterun to inform the Jarl. Ralof can't, because he's a Stormcloak, and Whiterun Hold is held by the Imperials in the Civil War."

"There's got to be other people," Marcus protested, but the girl shook her head.

"Just the Dragonborn, except at that point in the game, they don't know they are yet."

Marcus mulled this over in his mind. To beat the game they had to play along. There was a distinct advantage to having someone along who knew what to expect, but if it turned out _she_ was the Dragonborn, she certainly didn't need him along for the ride. So why was he here?

"Alright," he said finally. "Let's just say for the sake of argument that I believe all this horseshit. One of us may be this Dragonborn. What if it's you?" he demanded. "How does that get _me_ back home?"

The sun had set by this time, and he couldn't see her face in the growing darkness, but her somber tone told him what he'd feared in his gut.

"Marcus," she said softly. "I don't think you _can_ get home. I think you died. I think your car crashed and you died."

"That's a lie," he barely whispered. _"That's a lie!"_ he roared, leaping to his feet. "I'm still very much alive," he gritted out, "in spite of the fact that people are trying to cut my head off; despite the fact that a fucking _dragon_—a mythological creature, mind you—drops down out of the sky and decides to flame-broil me; even despite the fact that wolves and bears attack out of nowhere and they've got spiders here the size of Volkswagens!"

"You don't need to shout at me," she said stiffly.

"And that's another thing," he said, really getting worked up now. "How can anyone shout someone to death, like Ralof and Hod were saying last night? How could either one of us be this Dragonborn character? You said he's supposed to be some Nord hero, but neither one of us is Nordic. From what you've told me, we're both Americans!"

"Marcus, I'm trying to explain it to you," she protested.

"Well you're not doing a very good job, honey," he sneered. "I've had enough of this. I want to go home, now! If you've got anything to do with this, you'd better do something _now _and get me _out of here!_"

Tamsyn shook her head sadly. "I told you before, I'm as much a victim in this as you are. The only difference is that I _know_ I died." She got up, brushed herself off and turned to walk back to the main street. "When you've calmed down, come to the Sleeping Giant Inn. I don't want to impose on Gerdur and Hod again. I'll rent us a couple of rooms." She walked away and left him standing there. At the corner of the mill she turned and called back, "You might want to turn in early. We're going to have a busy day tomorrow."

Fuming, Marcus stayed where she left him, clenching and unclenching his fists. He wanted to punch something, but there was nothing nearby he could hit that he wouldn't end up breaking his knuckles on. This whole situation was ridiculous! Somebody, somewhere, knew what was going on. If it wasn't the girl, then he needed to start asking people, even if they looked at him strangely. Someone was bound to break character and admit this was all some weird, elaborate hoax. Well, he wasn't going to fall for it.

Except it seemed so damned real.

Marcus walked along the riverside for an hour, turning it over in his mind, but he just couldn't figure out a way to get out of this so-called 'reality'. Finally, weary of thinking about it and finding no solutions, he turned his steps towards the inn, the 'Sleeping Giant', Tamsyn had called it.

Inside, several faces turned to him as he entered, before resuming their evening activities. Alvor was there and waved at him, but Marcus wasn't feeling very sociable. He waved back politely, but turned to find out who was in charge of the place. He didn't see Tamsyn anywhere.

"Are you Marcus?" a tall, slender blonde woman in a blue dress asked him.

"Who—" he'd been about to ask 'Who wants to know?', but thought that would be rude. Admittedly, he was in a foul mood, but the woman had done nothing to deserve his temper. "Yeah, I'm Marcus," he said. "How'd you know?"

"I'm the innkeeper here," she said smugly. "It's my business to know. I'm Delphine. You came into town day before yesterday with that red-haired Breton girl, Tamsyn?"

Marcus nodded. This woman sure knew everyone else's business!

"She's already retired for the night," Delphine told him. "Your room is right next door, the one on the left. If you need anything, just ask."

"I need a stiff drink," he muttered.

Delphine smiled. "Orgnar can fix you up with one of those," she said. She nodded to a large, hairy man behind the counter. "Just don't ask for ale; it's off, and I need to get a new shipment in."

"Thanks," he replied as she moved over to some kind of strange table to one side of the hall and began crushing herbs in a mortar and pestle.

Deciding against the drink, Marcus opted to just hit the sack. It had been a troublesome day, and his muscles were still sore from pounding on metal and scraping leather. He closed the door of his room and fell into bed without bothering to undress. He was asleep before he hit the pillow.

_Everything seemed to swim in front of his eyes, and he heard Lynne's tinkling laughter as he tripped over his own feet._

"_Had a little too much tonight, have we?" she giggled._

"_I losht count, so it doshent count," he slurred._

"_Here we are," she encouraged him. "Into the Rover we go."_

"_Yall haf ta pour me in," he grinned._

"_You're too big for me to do that. I could get Dave out here to help me."_

"_Nah," he shook his head, and immediately regretted it as everything whirled around him. "He'sh had moren me."_

"_Easy does it!" his wife exclaimed as he launched himself into the passenger seat and crawled around to a sitting position. He fumbled with the seat belt, but she laughed again and playfully batted his hands away._

"_I'll do it," she said. "Or we're never getting home tonight."_

_He must have passed out for a few moments, because the next thing he remembered they were driving down Route 70 toward home. The glare of the oncoming headlights hurt his eyes, and he gave a soft moan._

"_Awake, sweetie?" Lynne asked._

"_Barely," he mumbled._

"_You were out for an hour. We're almost home."_

"_I don't feel sho good," he complained._

"_I can imagine," she sympathized. "You know you should never mix the grain with the grape—" Her voice broke off as she exclaimed in horror, "What is that idiot doing?"_

_There was a jolt and he was thrown forward, slamming against the seat belt and being flung against the door as Lynne screamed and slammed on the brakes. Everything after that seemed to go In slow motion as twin beams of light flooded their car, the front end crumpled up to the dashboard, glass splintered everywhere and a searing pain filled him. The last thing he heard was a _bang_ as the airbag deployed._

_When awareness returned, he realized he was floating somewhere above, looking down on himself. The Range Rover was a crumpled piece of metal compacted against the front end of a semi-truck rig. Red and blue lights flashed all around, and men in black raincoats with fluorescent yellow stripes were taping off the area._

_At one side of the road a man was sitting with a bloody nose and a gash on his forehead. He was crying. "I only took my eyes off the road for a second, I swear."_

"_He's lying," Lynne said next to him. "He fell asleep at the wheel. He'd been driving for fourteen hours straight already."_

_Mark looked down and saw her broken body next to his. Strangely, he felt calm. "How do you know that?" he asked her, completely sober._

"_I looked at his manifest," she replied. "Mark, I think we're dead."_

"_I think you're right," he said. "So what happens next?"_

"_I'm not sure," she replied. "I was expecting a beam of light or something—" she broke off as a rumbling roar shook them. The people below seemed not to notice._

"_What was that?" Lynne asked, fear in her voice._

"_I don't know," he said, shaken._

_The roar came again, and out of the darkness came a palpable blackness, with gleaming red eyes._

"_MARK!" Lynne screamed, clutching at him. He held her as close as he could, and tried to put her behind him, but the out of the darkness came an evil voice._

"Meyye!" _it said. _"I am Alduin. You cannot hide from me!"

_Something wrenched his wife from his arms, and the last thing he heard was Lynne shrieking his name as her ghostly form was rent to ribbons._

He awoke gasping for breath. His heart raced, and he felt his blood pounding in his veins. A sense of urgency told him he needed to find a bathroom, but there was none here. He settled for the bucket under the bed, the unsavory encrustations telling him that was its purpose.

What a horrible dream! Then cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and he sat on the bucket again as his bowels emptied themselves.

That was no dream. He remembered now! The bright headlights, the awful impact, and the sensation of being thrown out of his body. And then afterwards, the horrible roaring darkness which stripped his wife away from him. She was gone, he knew that now. Something had taken her from him and obliterated her soul. Something that called itself Alduin.

He staggered out of his room and into the main room of the inn. The bartender – Orgnar, was it? – was behind the bar, wiping down the wooden counter. Did the man never sleep?

"You look awful," Orgnar commented gruffly.

"I feel awful," Marcus mumbled in shock.

Orgnar rummaged behind the bar and brought out a blue glass bottle and a couple of small glasses. "Here. This one's on the house," he said. "Don't tell Delphine." He poured a small amount into each glass and pushed one towards Marcus.

The younger man managed to chuckle as he saluted the barkeep. "I won't tell her if you don't." He knocked back the drink, then gasped as the burn filtered its way down to his stomach. "What is this stuff?" he wheezed.

Orgnar grinned as he finished his glass. "Colovian brandy," he said, refilling the glasses. He waved off Marcus' attempt to pull some coins from the pouch at his belt. "I said this one's on me," he reminded Marcus.

"That was the last drink," Marcus frowned. "This is a new one."

"Still on me," Orgnar insisted. Then his face grew somber. "I heard you yell a little bit ago, before you came out. Must've been some nightmare."

"It was," Marcus admitted, unaware of the helpless, confused look on his face.

"Wanna talk about it?" the dark-haired Nord asked.

"I don't know where I'd start," Marcus muttered. "You probably wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"What's to believe?" Orgnar snorted. "It's just a dream, right? Probably sent by Vaermina."

"Who's Vaermina?" Marcus asked, puzzled.

"Daedric Prince of dreams and nightmares," Orgnar said shortly. "Probably best not to talk about her too much right now. Don't wanna call attention to yourself."

Marcus decided not to pursue this line of conversation and instead asked Orgnar, "Do you believe in an afterlife?"

"What, you mean after we die?" Orgnar asked. At Marcus' nod he replied, "Yeah, sure, most of us believe in Sovngarde. Don't you? Oh, wait, that's right. You're an Imperial. I don't know what afterlife they believe in."

Ralof had mentioned Sovngarde on their way to Helgen, Marcus remembered. "I don't know what Sovngarde is," he admitted. "I've been…out of the country for a while." He drank the second brandy down, and had to admit it was calming the jitters he'd experienced from the nightmare. It was going down much smoother this time, too.

Orgnar snorted. "Every true Nord knows about Sovngarde," he said. "We're told about it from the cradle. Any Nord who dies bravely in battle gets a chance to go there."

"And it's a nice place?" Marcus couldn't help but ask as Orgnar filled his glass for the third time.

"Far as I've been told," Orgnar rumbled. "Have to say I've never been there myself. I've heard it's non-stop drinking and wenching, if you're into that sort of thing. Guess there's a lot of good men and women on both sides of this war finding out for themselves what it's like now."

Marcus nodded soberly, but could find nothing to say to that. He didn't know a whole lot about the particulars of the civil war that seemed to be going on here, and he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in it, though Ralof had urged them both to join up with the Stormcloaks.

They sat in companionable silence, drinking brandy and listening to Sven play quietly on his lute. Finally, Marcus blurted out, "I dreamed I died, and my wife with me." What made him say that, he didn't know, but Orgnar had been kind when he didn't have to be, and was sharing some really fine brandy with him.

"And where's your wife now?" Orgnar asked. "I take it that's not her in the other room."

Marcus shook his head. "No, she's not—we're just—we escaped Helgen together," he finished.

Orgnar's eyes widened, but all he said was, "Well, no wonder you're having nightmares." He poured them both another brandy, and Marcus was feeling a warm glow in the pit of his stomach where before there had been only a hollow emptiness.

"I don't know where my wife is now," Marcus admitted unhappily. "Something tells me she's…gone. That it wasn't a nightmare, but a memory."

"I'm sorry," Orgnar said quietly. "Maybe you'll see her again in Sovngarde, then, or wherever it is that Imperials go when they die."

Marcus shook his head. "No, I mean, she's _gone_. Something big, dark and _evil_ snatched her away from me, and I…I couldn't _feel_ her there anymore. It called itself 'Alduin'."

The glass Orgnar had been holding dropped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the stone floor. His rugged face went pale behind the dark beard, and his eyes widened in fear.

"Don't say that name here!" he whispered harshly.

"What?" Marcus blinked. "Why? Who is Al—"

"I said don't say that name here!" Orgnar said louder and more forcefully. He dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper. "Don't you know? That's the World Eater! Everyone in Skyrim knows about the old tales, how he's the harbinger of the end times!"

Marcus just stared at the man helplessly. Orgnar was not a small man. He was tall, broad, one might almost say 'brutish-looking', and he certainly looked like he could hold his own in a pitched fight. But right now the big man was practically shaking.

"We won't talk about this again," Orgnar growled. "And I think you need to return to your room." He took the bottle and the glass Marcus had finished and disappeared into a back room. He didn't come back.

Marcus went back to his room, more confused than ever. Who or what was this 'Alduin'? And why did he have the huge Nord bartender shaking in his shoes? As he lay back down on the bed, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, he thought about Tamsyn in the next room. He was certain she would know, if she was right and they were truly inside some video game. He resolved to talk to her in the morning.

_**[Notes: **__Next up: Bleak Falls Barrow. Marcus gets a few more combat pointers from a more sympathetic trainer, and learns a few more things about himself.]_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Caught in a Landslide**

_**[Author's Note:**__ Have I got the song stuck in your head yet? **grin** Marcus still isn't sure what to make of Tamsyn, and still isn't convinced he can't get home again, so he's sticking close. This leads to some eye-opening experiences for him.]_

_[See the end of the chapter for more __**Notes.**__]_

Marcus awoke early and returned to the common room to see Orgnar back behind the bar, but the big man refused to meet his eyes. He saw Tamsyn already up and about, working at the strange table on the opposite side of the room.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Good morning to you, too," she replied dryly. "Sleep well?"

"What?" he started. "No, I – I didn't sleep well at all. Can we talk…privately?" He threw a glance at Delphine, standing not too far away. Her nonchalant manner didn't fool him for a minute; he was certain she was listening in.

"I suppose we need to," she sighed. "I'm just about done here. Give me a few minutes."

"What is that you're making?" Marcus queried. She was pouring some kind of distillate into small red bottles.

"Healing potions," she explained. "As well as other kinds of potions and poisons. I had to use what I had on hand. We don't have the money to buy much in the way of expensive ingredients."

"Poisons!" Marcus looked shocked. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm perfectly serious," she said flatly. "When applied to an arrow or the blade of a weapon, a poison against your enemy might be the difference between life and death…yours, that is."

Marcus brooded, but said nothing. Finally she was finished and thanked Delphine for the use of the alchemy lab, gathered up her belongings and slipped her pack on her back.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" he asked, trotting to keep up with her.

"Whiterun, eventually," she replied. "But there's a stop we need to make first. And I need to see if Faendal can come with us."

Alvor had mentioned Faendal yesterday, and called him a Bosmer. That wasn't any nationality he'd ever heard of before, but Marcus was realizing there were a _lot_ of things happening recently that were outside his experience.

Faendal turned out to be an elf; a tall, blonde, pointed-eared, _Lord of the Rings_ elf, for Christ's sake. A day or two ago, Marcus would have been marveling over the make-up and prosthetics job. Today, however, he stared quietly at the living, breathing, fairy-tale legend and let Tamsyn do the talking.

"So you'll come with us?" she was saying now.

"Of course!" he smiled. "Helping you retrieve Lucan's claw is sure to impress his sister Camilla. And I sure do want to impress her."

"It's going to be dangerous," she warned. "I can't guarantee your safety."

"You let me worry about that," Faendal said. "I can look after myself. Besides, I got some decent armor from the bandits in the mine yesterday, and a really fine greatsword. I feel a lot more confident we can handle whatever Bleak Falls Barrow throws at us."

"Alright, then," she said gratefully. "I've made some healing potions for you, and a few poisons for your bow."

"Thanks!" Faendal grinned, taking the sack from her. "These will definitely come in handy." He looked over at Marcus who had said nothing this whole time. "He's coming with us, too?"

"Yes," Tamsyn said firmly. "There's something else in the barrow we need to find, the two of us."

"If you say so," Faendal said, shrugging. He offered his hand to Marcus, who took it automatically. "What weapon do you prefer, Marcus?" he asked.

Marcus hardly knew how to answer that. "Um…a sharp one?" he guessed.

The Bosmer elf burst out laughing. "Good answer!" he chuckled, clapping Marcus on the back. "It will be a privilege to see how you handle yourself."

Marcus had a sinking feeling he was already outclassed. Still, Ralof had given him a few pointers. He just hoped he remembered enough of them to defend himself if he needed to.

The bandits at the watchtower weren't that difficult to beat. Marcus hung back and let Faendal whittle away at them with his bow. But they charged forward, and Tamsyn called forth that ghost-wolf again, then shot streams of fire and ice at them until they crumpled under the assault.

The one waiting at the top of the watchtower was a little tougher, and they couldn't all get into the tower and up the stairs to fight him. Tamsyn's wolf went in first, but didn't last long against the man's battleaxe. Faendal charged in with his greatsword while Tamsyn maneuvered around to shoot a steady stream of ice at the brute. When he finally collapsed, Faendal turned to Marcus.

"Don't hold back," he said severely. "If you see an opening, get in there and strike!"

"I don't—I mean, I'm not—"

"You _do_ know how to swing a sword, don't you?" Faendal asked sharply.

"It's not that simple," Marcus spluttered.

Understanding dawned in the wood elf's eyes. "You don't, do you?" he said gently. "You've never had to fight for your life before, have you?"

Marcus shook his head, miserably. He was a failure and an embarrassment. He should head back down the mountain right now and wait for them at the Sleeping Giant. He said as much to his two companions.

"You can't, Marcus," Tamsyn protested. "You need to be there."

"Why?" he demanded. "I'm a liability, Tamsyn. You saw what just happened here. You and Faendal pretty much took care of these guys by yourselves. I could end up getting killed….or worse, getting one of you killed!"

"Maybe you just have the wrong weapon," Faendal suggested. "That Imperial sword is all well and good, but you end up having to get too close to your enemy to be able to hit him. And if he's wielding a battleaxe or greatsword, his reach is always going to be greater than yours."

"The larger weapons are slower, though," Tamsyn pointed out. "If you're quick enough, agile enough, you can get inside his guard before he can swing at you again."

"I'm not quick," Marcus said sourly. "I don't even know what I'm doing."

"Then let me show you," Faendal suggested. He proceeded to hand Marcus the bandit chief's large battleaxe and took him through several steps and paces for defending himself against an attack. After a good, solid half-hour, Marcus felt a little more confident that he could ward off a direct attack against him. He still wasn't sure he'd be able to hit anyone if he needed to. And he had the distinct feeling he was going to need to.

Tamsyn and Faendal assured him they would do everything they could to keep him safe. Their promises made him feel a little better about his chances for survival, but he felt ashamed he didn't 'have their backs' as they had his. If he got out of this alive, he resolved to put in some serious practice.

There were more bandits outside the Barrow itself, perched high on the side of the mountain; there were even more inside. Tamsyn with her spells, and Faendal with his bow managed to take them out before they could get too close, but even so, Faendal took an arrow in the shoulder and they had to stop while he drank some of the precious healing potions and recover. Marcus was amazed to see the blood stanch and tissues meld themselves back together.

"How is that possible?" he breathed.

Tamsyn shrugged. "Magic works here, Marcus," she said quietly. "This isn't our old world."

Marcus threw a warning glance toward Faendal, where the Bosmer was attempting to pick open a locked chest. Tamsyn followed his gaze and shrugged.

"Don't worry about Faendal," she said. "He knows about us. I told him everything yesterday."

"And he believed you?"

"Not at first," she admitted, "but eventually he came around and agreed the Divines were at work here. He had a little trouble accepting that this was all just a game where we came from, but he agrees with me now that someone brought us here for a reason, and he's more than willing to help us."

Somehow, knowing there was at least one person in this world who knew the truth and believed them made Marcus feel a lot better.

The chest contained a few more gold coins—called 'septims', Marcus learned—and a few more weapons and bits of armor. There was nothing better than the ones already being carried, but Tamsyn squealed in delight over a green robe folded up in the bottom of the chest.

"Ooo! This is better than what I'm wearing now!" she exclaimed happily.

"We can turn our backs and wait while you change, if you like," Faendal offered.

"Would you?" she asked.

Marcus shrugged. "Sure," he said. "It's not like we're on a time schedule or anything." He turned his back, and Faendal promptly did the same.

"I thought you were both in a hurry to get to Whiterun," the elf said.

"We are," Tamsyn said from behind them. "But we needed to come here first, or else we're just going to have to come back."

"Why?" Marcus asked.

"Because once we tell Jarl Balgruuf about Helgen, he's going to turn us over to his court mage who will ask us to find something here. I'm just beating him to the punch."

"Efficiency at its finest," Marcus grimaced.

"It's a four-hour walk to Whiterun," Faendal said drily. "I don't blame her for not wanting to make that trip twice in one day."

When Tamsyn was clothed again they pushed on. It wasn't long before they found Arvel, another elf with darker skin, who turned out to be one of the thieves who'd stolen Lucan Valerius' golden claw. Marcus cut him down after they killed the biggest spider he'd seen yet since coming to Skyrim, but Arvel only sneered, "Why should I share the treasure with you fools?" Faendal shot him down before he could disappear out of sight.

"That's for Camilla and Lucan," he muttered, picking up the golden claw and handing it to Marcus to hold. It was a lot heavier than Marcus thought it would be, but he managed to get it into his backpack and lugged it back on his shoulder.

They pushed on further into the Barrow, and before long Tamsyn called a halt.

"We have to be careful from here on in," she whispered. "This place is really a tomb, and it's filled with a lot of dead bodies."

"So what?" Marcus asked. "If they're dead, they won't bother us." The other two stared at him in disbelief. "What? They can't, can they?"

"They're known as draugr," Faendal explained. "Legend has it they used to serve the ancient dragon priests and were cursed with undeath for their treachery. Believe what you might, the dead have a tendency to not stay that way in Skyrim."

"Lovely," Marcus commented, in a tone that clearly implied he thought it was anything but. "So, what happens when they walk around? Can they turn us into zombies or something if they scratch us?"

"You're thinking of vampires," Faendal shuddered. "Pray we don't find any of _those_ down here. The draugr are bad enough!"

"You're not serious!" Marcus exclaimed. He turned to Tamsyn. "He's not serious, is he?"

"Deadly serious," she murmured. "And keep your voice down, or you will literally wake the dead, and then we're all in trouble. Let's keep moving."

Very soon, Marcus found out exactly what she meant. One large chamber they entered had dozens of crypts carved into the stone with numerous skeletons and bodies lying in state within. Some of the bodies were practically naked, while others still had bits of armor on them. All were in a state of mummification he'd only seen in museums and on the National Geographic Channel.

Tamsyn touched Faendal's arm and pointed across the chamber to one of the armored bodies and nodded her head. He seemed to understand, for he took careful aim with his bow and let fly an arrow. It struck true, and the body growled and shuddered before it lay still, startling the hell out of Marcus.

"What was _that?_" he nearly shouted, as his two companions shushed him severely. It was too late. Three more bodies rose from their crypts, coughed and growled, and peered around with eerie, glowing blue eyes. One of them spotted the three of them near the stairs and shouted something that sounded like _"Faaz! Paak! Dinok!"_

"Oh, crap!" Marcus moaned. He barely got the battleaxe up in time before the creature was bringing its sword down on him. The smell of death was nauseating, and he realized with horror that the damned thing was _female_!

Heat washed over him as a flume of fire ignited the draugr. It staggered back just long enough for him to swing down with the axe with both hands. The draugr sprawled undignified on the stone floor, the blue light leaving its eyes.

Faendal was going toe to toe with one wearing really old-looking armor, and Tamsyn was peppering it with bursts of fire, endeavoring to keep from catching the wood elf in the process. Eventually, the tomb was silent once more, except for the labored breathing of the three companions.

"And that, my friend, is a Draugr," Faendal quipped.

"I don't like them," Marcus said sourly, and Faendal grinned, clapping him on the back for the second time that day.

They pushed on. They encountered more draugr, traps that had to be avoided, locks that must be picked on chests to reveal coins and other treasure. As much as he hated to admit it, Marcus was beginning to think he could get used to this kind of life. After a few more skirmishes with draugr and a few more pointers from Faendal, he was feeling more comfortable swinging the battleaxe and blocking blows. He was also smart enough to know he had a long way to go before he could consider himself proficient at it.

They finally reached a large, round wall with no visible opening. Concentric rings with animal motifs on them surrounded a flat circular area in the middle which looked to have some kind of indentations in it.

"Is this the end?" Marcus asked. "Do we go back now?"

Tamsyn shook her head. "We haven't found what we came for yet. It's beyond this door."

"This is a door?" Faendal asked doubtfully. "How do we get it open? I don't see any locks to pick."

"We don't need a pick," the girl said smugly. "The claw is literally the key to getting it open."

Marcus pulled the golden claw out of his backpack and looked closely at it. It was large, that was certain; large enough that maybe…just maybe the talons would fit into the holes on the center portion of the wall. He tested and found that it fit perfectly.

"Hold it!" the red-haired girl cried. "You haven't set the code yet!"

"Code?" Faendal echoed, confused. "What code?"

Marcus pulled the claw back out and looked at it again. Yes…he could see it now. There were motifs on the palm of the claw. A bear, some kind of butterfly or moth, and what looked to be an owl. He examined the door again and saw the rings could actually be moved.

"I get it," he grinned. "Help me here, Faendal!" Together they shifted the rings so the animals on the stone matched the order set on the claw. Marcus then fit the claw back into the holes and turned it.

Nothing happened.

"What?" he exclaimed. "That's the right combination, I know it!"

"Try pushing the plate in as you turn," Tamsyn suggested calmly.

He did as she directed, and a rumble went through the floor beneath their feet as the rings on the door spun and lined up with three owls, then began to sink into the stone, revealing an opening beyond.

"You Nords and your ancient puzzle doors," Faendal smirked, shaking his head. "What were they thinking, putting the right figures on the key itself? Who did they think they were keeping out?"

"Maybe they weren't trying to keep something _out_," Tamsyn commented, and left it at that.

"Come on," Marcus said, "I want to get out of here as fast as possible. Let's get moving."

"You won't get an argument from me," Faendal said grimly. "This place gives me the creeps."

"A moment please, gentlemen, if you will," Tamsyn said. They paused and turned to her.

"What now?" Marcus sighed.

"This is going to be the toughest battle yet," she told them. "Something may happen to one of us which will trigger a reaction. Be prepared."

"Could you be a little more cryptic, Tamsyn?" Faendal queried, raising a finely-arched eyebrow.

"I don't want to say anymore until we get in there," she replied. "Just be ready."

The two men shrugged and led the way into the huge cavern beyond. At the far end they could see a raised area, with stone steps carved into the base rock leading up to a large curving wall. In front of the wall, on a stone plinth, was a large, black sarcophagus, ornately carved, and a table made of the same black stone, also intricately engraved. As they approached the steps, Marcus heard some kind of chanting. He stopped.

"Something wrong?" Faendal asked.

"No, I just—" Marcus hesitated. "Do either of you hear that chanting?"

Faendal looked confused, and Tamsyn looked oddly disappointed.

"I don't hear anything," the wood elf said. "Do you Tamsyn?"

The girl shook her head. "No, I don't," she said mournfully. "But that tells me what I need to know. Marcus, could you go over and take a look at the wall?"

"I guess so," he replied. "What am I looking for?"

"Just see if you can read any of the scratchings there."

Marcus shrugged and approached the wall. "Looks like Cuneiform to me," he commented. "Hey! Are you guys seeing this?" he asked in surprise.

"Get ready," Tamsyn whispered to Faendal, who nocked an arrow without questioning why. "See what, Marcus?" she called.

"These scratchings….they're glowing!" Wonder filled his voice. "I—I can read them! It says 'fus', but I don't know what it means…guys?" Marcus spun around as a reverberating _crack_ echoed through the cavern. The lid of the sarcophagus had blown off somehow, as if being shot out of a very large cannon, and the corpse inside was getting out!

The creature stood and turned to face Marcus.

"_FUS!"_ it shouted at him, and he felt himself being propelled like a rag doll through the air and slammed against the curving stone wall. Dimly, he was aware that Tamsyn was hitting it with a stream of fire from both hands, and Faendal was peppering it with arrow after arrow, but it seemed to shrug those off. It was the biggest, baddest draugr he'd seen yet.

Bruised and aching, Marcus got to his feet in time to see it slash at Tamsyn, who didn't quite dodge out of the way in time. With an ear-splitting scream, she crumpled, and her fire spell winked out as she desperately tried to crawl away. The draugr raised its sword for a killing blow, but staggered as Faendal hit it squarely between the eyes with an arrow. Those eyes narrowed in hate as the draugr turned to advance on him.

Faendal danced just out of range, still trying to peg it with his bow, but the creature was chasing him down, and he wouldn't be able to keep up a ranged attack for much longer; he'd have to switch to the greatsword quickly.

Marcus ran over to Tamsyn, who was bleeding from a grievous wound. "Oh my God, Tamsyn! Don't die!"

"Potion," she gasped, and he fumbled quickly through his pack and found one of the red bottles she'd given him. He uncorked it and carefully supported her head while he coaxed the liquid into her. Relieved, he could see it beginning to work as the blood stopped flowing and the wound began to close.

"I could use a little help here!" Faendal called desperately, warding off blows from the huge draugr's greatsword. Frost sparkled from the creature's blade, and every glancing blow he struck made the wood elf wince and shiver.

"Go! Help him!" Tamsyn whispered.

"But—"

"I'll be alright," she insisted. "He needs you more!"

Marcus nodded and stood, unslinging the battleaxe from his shoulder. Fury filled him, directed at this undead thing that had dared to hurt his friends. Without realizing it, he gave a wordless roar and charged the draugr, swinging the axe cleanly over his head, feeling it bite deeply into dead flesh before slicing through.

It didn't kill the creature, but instead of turning to fight him, the draugr ran as far away from him as it could.

Marcus blinked in surprise. "What the hell just happened?"

Faendal chuckled. "Voice of the Emperor!" he grinned. "You calmed it. It doesn't want to fight now. Let's finish it off while we have the chance!"

Marcus grinned back and together they advanced on the draugr. It was still tougher than it looked; being cornered made the creature desperate and broke the charm Marcus had laid on it. Tamsyn had recovered enough to hit it with another stream of fire, and the undead responded by Shouting "_FUS!" _ at her and sending her flying. Enraged, Marcus struck out more viciously, but his attacks weren't as effective, and were mostly blocked. He tried screaming at it again, but it had no effect, and Faendal called out, "It only works once! After that they pretty much figure it out!"

"Now you tell me," Marcus gritted out, hissing as the ice-cold blade of the draugr bit deeply into his armor. He was bleeding, he knew, but none of his wounds were serious enough to stop. "Why don't you die and stay dead, damn you!" he growled, bringing the battleaxe down one last time and breaking through the draugr's defense. The creature went down, and the evil blue light went out of its eyes.

Breathing hard, he bent over and put his hands on his knees. "Son of a bitch, that was hard!" he gasped.

"You handled yourself pretty well," Faendal approved. "Nothing like a life-threatening situation to bring out the warrior in us, eh?"

"It's not the adrenaline rush I'd have asked for," Marcus nodded, still breathing hard, "but I have to admit, it was pretty exciting." Despite everything, he found himself grinning.

Tamsyn came over, dusting herself off. "Well, I could do without being blown into the next Province." She leaned down and rummaged through the draugr's armor, pulling out a large stone tablet.

"What's that?" Marcus asked. "It looks like home plate."

Faendal looked perplexed, but Tamsyn smiled. "This is what we came for, the item we need to give to the court mage in Whiterun." Her smile faded. "Of course, that's going to trigger a whole other chain of events."

"Then don't give it to him," Marcus said, matter-of-factly.

The girl shook her head. "That's not an option, Marcus," she replied. "Not giving the stone to Farengar won't stop what's happening to Skyrim."

"What _is_ happening?" Faendal queried. "Besides this silly civil war, I mean."

Tamsyn looked about as unhappy as a person could get without crying. "The end times," she murmured. "Alduin is coming."

Faendal went pale and Marcus was shocked. How could she know about his dream?

"You've got some explaining to do," he growled at her.

"I know," she answered. "And I will. But let's get out of here first."

Nothing else happened as she led them around to a couple more chests that she seemed to know somehow were there, then walked ahead of them up a flight of stone steps to a tunnel she assured them led to the way out of the Barrow.

"Do you know what she's talking about?" Marcus asked Faendal. "About these 'end times', I mean?"

"Only a little," the Bosmer said in a low voice. "It has to do with some prophecy or other about a huge black dragon named Alduin, the World-Eater, and how the ancient Tongues banished him from Tamriel during the Dragon Wars ages ago. The prophecy said that someday he would return, and when he did, it would signal the beginning of the end times."

"And what _are_ the end times?"

"The end of _everything_!" Faendal answered, surprised Marcus would even ask. "The prophecy says that Alduin will devour all things and the world will end, unless a hero known as the Last Dragonborn can stop him. The problem is, there hasn't been a Dragonborn for centuries."

Alduin; Dragonborn; end times. Faendal spoke as if Marcus would automatically know what he was talking about, and Marcus didn't want to appear any more ignorant than he already did by asking too many questions. He'd had to have Tamsyn clarify things for him later.

What did this mysterious stone tablet have to do with this Alduin? And was Alduin the dragon the same Alduin that had been in his dream, if it _was_ a dream? Why had he been spared and Lynne taken from him? His head ached with all the questions for which he had no answers. That Tamsyn knew more than she was telling him was certain. What of that curious word that only he seemed to be able to read on the wall; the chanting that only he had heard? The draugr had shouted the word at him, and he'd gone flying, yet he couldn't seem to achieve the same result, though he experimented on the way back to Riverwood.

Tamsyn had just shaken her head in that mysterious way of hers. "You haven't unlocked its meaning yet," was all she would say.

It was early afternoon when they made it back safely to Riverwood. They returned the golden claw to a very grateful Lucan Valerius, and his sister was beaming in admiration at Faendal, who grinned like the fool in love that he was. They parted from him with promises to visit soon that Marcus wasn't sure they'd be able to keep and stopped by the smithy to sell off the rest of the weapons and armor Tamsyn had insisted on picking up as they went along.

"Why?" he'd demanded every time they'd killed a draugr and she'd picked over its corpse.

"Because we can sell these items, and right now, we need the cash," she'd explained. So he let himself become a pack mule and carried the equipment with few complaints. Now, he was glad he'd given in, seeing their nest egg grow.

As quickly as possible, they said their good-byes to Gerdur and Hod, Faendal and Lucan, Alvor and Orgnar, and headed up the road to Whiterun. It was mid-afternoon, and Tamsyn was hopeful they could get in to see the Jarl before it got too late.

"And if it _is_ too late to see him, assuming he'll consent?" Marcus asked.

"Then we'll have to rent a room at the Bannered Mare and wait until tomorrow morning to talk to him," she replied, worry furrowing her brow. She still hadn't explained the significance of the stone tablet, or how it related to this World-Eating dragon, and he didn't know how to approach the subject. She broached it herself once they got on the road.

"So I imagine you've got a lot of questions, and just don't know which one to ask first, eh?" she began.

"Yeah," he said. "Like, who or what is this Alduin?"

She shuddered before replying. "Alduin was that huge black dragon that attacked Helgen the day before yesterday," she said soberly. "He was banished from Tamriel centuries ago by heroes known as the First Tongues, the first ones to learn how to use the Dragon Shouts."

"Wait, is that what that draugr did to us?" Marcus asked. The girl beside him nodded.

"Yes. Those with the proper training can learn to focus their vital essence into what is known as a Thu'um, or Shout. They are said to have the dragon blood in them, and a dragon's soul."

"And you think I'm one of them?" he inquired incredulously.

Again she nodded. "You were sitting in the same spot in the cart that the player character in the game wakes up in," she explained. "You were the only one of us to hear the chanting at the word wall, the only one who could read the word. Basically, the player character _is_ the Last Dragonborn, a hero with the body of a mortal and the soul of a dragon. As you go through the game you get stronger, learn new skills, new Shouts, even spells if you choose to, and eventually beat the game by facing your destiny."

"And what _is _that destiny?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Tamsyn hesitated. "To kill Alduin," she finally whispered.

"_WHAT?"_ He rounded on her. "Are you out of your _fucking mind_?" he exploded. "I have to go up against _that_?" He gestured wildly backwards in the general direction of Helgen. "No way! No fucking way!" he raged. "I'll be dead in two seconds. You saw what he did to an entire village, and they had all those Imperial soldiers there to fight that thing."

He didn't tell her about the dream. He realized now it wasn't a dream, and he knew that somehow this Alduin creature, whatever it was, had taken his wife away from him. He had thought that he and Lynne would share their afterlife together in Heaven, but he wasn't in Heaven. Was he in Hell? That had to be it. To have been stripped of his wife's soul and shoved into this ridiculous alternate reality where he had no skills to survive. He had to be in Hell. But what had he done to deserve this? He'd been a good Christian; he'd gone to church faithfully, read his Bible, gave to charity and worked hard to provide for his family. He didn't always get along with everyone, but he was mostly kind to all and didn't hold grudges. He'd never violated any of the Ten Commandments, so why was he in Hell? It had to be a mistake. This wasn't the afterlife he'd signed up for.

Tamsyn was trying to talk to him, to calm him down, to reason with him, but all he could focus on was, _I have to kill a dragon to get out of here. I'm going to die._

"Please Marcus," the red-haired girl was begging now, "please just come with me to Whiterun. It may not be as bad as you think. Oh, I knew I shouldn't have told you!"

She sounded so miserable that without realizing it, he felt his anger slipping away.

"No," he said, letting out a harsh breath. "No, you're right. If you hadn't told me, and I'd had to find out all of this on my own, I'd've been a lot more pissed than I am now."

She sniffed, and he saw she was close to tears. "You have no idea what it's like," she said in a low, unsteady voice. "I know now what the Oracles of old must have felt, knowing the future, and not having anyone believe them, or getting so mad at them for telling the truth that they would stone them to death. It's a horrible burden to bear."

Marcus blew out another breath and took off his hide helmet, running a hand through his hair. Part of his brain registered that it was longer than he usually kept it. The main point he focused on, however, was exactly how unfair he'd been to Tamsyn since they escaped Helgen and began traveling together. All along she had only been trying to help them improve their situation, using her knowledge of the game to accomplish just that, and he had grumbled and groused the entire time. He felt ashamed of himself. It wasn't her fault; none of this was her fault, but he'd felt the need to lash out against something he couldn't control. It was a humbling thought, and he resolved to do better. He put the helmet back on and helped her to her feet from the rock she'd been sitting on.

"Look," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault. I just—I feel so helpless." He sat down next to her and sighed. "I've been lost and scared and I've been taking it out on you, and I'm sorry."

"I understand, Marcus," she sniffled, blotting her eyes on the sleeve of her tunic. "I really do."

"You don't know everything, though," he said, his voice subdued, and proceeded to tell her about his dream. "Only I know now it wasn't a dream," he said heavily. "It was real, wasn't it?"

"I'm sorry, Marcus," Tamsyn said softly. "I truly am. And I think you're right. It wasn't a dream."

"Why?" Marcus whispered, his vision blurring as he stared out across the river.

"Maybe…" the girl said thoughtfully, "…maybe Alduin was trying to kill you before you could be brought here. If he had succeeded, there would have been nothing to stop him from destroying this world."

"I guess," Marcus nodded. "But I mean, why me? Why was I chosen to be brought here? I don't know anything about the game. I never even heard of it before."

"Maybe that's why," his companion replied softly. "Someone like me who knows the game might try to exploit loopholes, or second-guess outcomes. But I'm not the Dragonborn, so the world won't have to depend on me. It will have to depend on you, an ordinary person with an extraordinary destiny. Someone who, just like the player character in the game, has to bring themselves up from nothing by just their luck and skill alone."

"But to have to do it alone—"

"You won't be alone," Tamsyn insisted. "There will always be those who can help you, if you let them."

"Like you?" He turned to face her, searching her face.

"Like me, for a time," she agreed. "But as the Dragonborn grows and becomes a force to be reckoned with, they very often outgrow the ones who helped them in the beginning. They don't need them anymore." She stood up then and brushed off her tunic. "At least, in the game they don't. The computer-generated characters don't have genuine intelligence, feelings and free will. The people here in Skyrim do. You'd do well to remember that. This isn't a game any longer. It's real life."

He got to his feet, mulling that over. "I think I understand what you mean," he murmured, then took a deep breath. "Come on," he said briskly, "we're not getting any closer to Whiterun the longer we sit here."

She gave him a grateful smile and he patted her shoulder. It was like having his kid sister all over again.

They made good time after that, following the road that followed the river most of the way. They were attacked by wolves only once, but Marcus was starting to feel more comfortable swinging the greataxe, and a forewarning from Tamsyn helped to prepare him when the wolves burst out from cover. It was over in a matter of minutes and they were soon on their way again, after pushing the bodies off to the side of the road.

"Some day you may have to learn how to skin them," she told him.

"Why?"

"Well, where do you think leather comes from?" she asked him. "It's better to hunt your own than to have to buy what you need."

Marcus chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. They don't exactly have a Wal-Mart on every corner here."

They rounded a last bend in the road which led down the hill to a crossroads, and away to the northwest they saw the city of Whiterun rising up on a knoll out of the tundra.

"Wow," Marcus said. "I admit, I'm pretty impressed."

Tamsyn grinned. "Wait until you see Markarth," she chuckled.

They passed by the Honningbrew Meadery – Nords seemed to really like mead, he thought – and as they approached an outlying farm they heard roars and the clashing of steel.

"Is that a—" Marcus began in wonder.

"Giant," Tamsyn finished. "No, Marcus wait!" Tamsyn called after him, as he took off at a dead run to help the three figures fighting the huge humanoid.

The giant was facing away from Marcus, and he roared as he sunk his axe into the titan's back. It shuddered and turned to face him, but he ducked under the massive club it swung at him and retaliated with a vicious blow to its knees, bringing the creature down with an earth-shaking thud.

One of the other fighters, a woman in green and brown leather with green warpaint striping her face, stepped up to him.

"You handle yourself well," she praised him. "You could make for a decent Shield-Brother."

"Shield-Brother?" he asked blankly, breathing hard. The other two warriors stood a respectful distance away. One was a large, burly, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes; the other, a lithe, strong-looking young woman with less warpaint and wearing heavier armor made up of overlapping scales of steel.

"You're new to Skyrim, eh?" she chuckled. "Never heard of the Companions before?" Marcus shook his head as Tamsyn came running up. "I'm Aela, the Huntress," the woman introduced herself, "and these are my Shield-Siblings, Farkas and Ria. We're an order of warriors. We are brothers and sisters in honor, and we show up to solve problems, if the coin is good enough."

"And you can train people?" Marcus asked hopefully.

"Only if you're a member of the Companions," Aela said, giving Tamsyn a sweeping, dismissive look.

"Can I join, then? What do I have to do?" he pressed her.

"Not for me to say," Aela said. "You'll have to talk to Kodlak Whitemane up in Jorrvaskr. The old man's got a good sense for people. He can look in your eyes and tell your worth. If you go to him, good luck."

The three Companions turned and left, then. Marcus stood there, deep in thought. This would be a good way for him to improve his fighting techniques. The Lord knew he could use it.

"You're thinking about joining them, aren't you?" he heard Tamsyn say.

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Why? You don't like them?"

"I don't dislike them," she qualified. "I've done their questline before, in the game. But here? They'd never let me in. I'm a mage, not a fighter. Nords generally don't like magic."

"That dark-haired girl didn't look like a Nord," Marcus pointed out.

"No, Ria's an Imperial. But the Companions in particular don't care for magic."

"Well, Aela said they could train me if I joined them," he pointed out. "I could use some training. Where's the harm?"

She looked as though she was struggling with her conscience before she smiled at him. "No harm," she said. "If you want to join them, I'm not your Mom. You don't need my permission."

"That's right," he said, still not sure she was being completely open with him. "I don't. Let's get moving, it's getting late."

_**[Notes: **__No, of course she didn't tell him what could happen if he joined the Companions. He will have to find that out for himself, and make his own choice. Next up: all Oblivion breaks loose. Will Marcus be able to handle it? Has he learned enough to survive?]_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**No Escape from Reality**

_**[Author's Note: **__Ah, yes. The final phase: acceptance. But first, Marcus has to fight "Baby's First Dragon", as my son likes to call Mirmulnir.]_

_[See the end of the chapter for more __**Notes**__.]_

They had a little trouble getting into the city proper; the guard at the gate told them everything was closed because of the threat of dragons. Marcus noted in disgust that Aela and Company had already preceded them into town and had had no trouble passing through the gates. Tamsyn reminded him they lived here, while she and Marcus were strangers.

"So basically, they already know," he said sourly. "We came all this way for nothing."

"We still need to ask the Jarl to send men to Riverwood," Tamsyn reminded him. Turning to the guard she insisted, "Riverwood calls for aid. The Jarl needs to send men to help with the defense."

"Truly?" the guard queried. "Very well, you may go in. The Jarl is up at Dragonsreach, at the top of the hill."

Tamsyn thanked him and waited for the gate to open before passing through it, with Marcus behind her.

The first thing he noticed was a large smithy – larger than Alvor's in Riverwood – situated to the right side, just past the canal. Everything seemed to go uphill from this point, with what looked to be some sort of tavern or inn on a rise to the left, just across the road from the gatehouse.

There was some sort of altercation going on in front of "Warmaiden's", the smithy, but Tamsyn didn't stay to listen, pushing on toward an open-air market. At the far end of the market, before the road turned left, Marcus saw another inn with a sign that read, "The Bannered Mare". There appeared to be two other shops snuggled around the market, but he didn't get a chance to see what they were as Tamsyn led him up a flight of stairs to some kind of park. The main focus of this area was a large, dead tree surrounded by benches, and ringing this area were several small buildings and one large, impressive edifice.

"Wow!" he breathed, awed in spite of himself. "What's that?"

Tamsyn stopped and looked back. She smiled. "That's Jorrvaskr," she explained. "That's the mead hall of the Companions. It's where Aela, Ria and Farkas live when they're not being contracted as mercenaries."

Marcus made a mental note to come back here after they were done talking to the Jarl.

He followed Tamsyn up another twisting flight of steps that led to the highest level of the city, across a long bridge over a waterway to the largest building he'd seen yet: the impressive palace of Dragonsreach. Tamsyn spoke quickly and quietly to the guard at the main entrance and they were waved inside.

It was warmer than he expected inside. Ever since he'd woken up in Skyrim, he'd been aware of the cold, and he'd noticed on several occasions that Tamsyn seemed to shiver quite a bit. She was doing it now, but breathed a sigh of relief as a wave of heat radiated toward them from a large firepit set above them up a short flight of stairs. Servants were sweeping either side of the entryway, and two long dining tables were set up facing each other on either side of the firepit. At the far end, sitting on an ornate chair placed on a raised dais, was the man they called Jarl Balgruuf, the lord of Whiterun. But to get to him they had to cross the distance from the main entrance; a distance swiftly closed by a dark-skinned elf with red hair and a very sharp-looking sword.

"Who dares to approach?" she glared at them menacingly. "The Jarl is _not_ receiving visitors!"

Tamsyn opened her mouth to speak, but Marcus had had enough. He'd been nearly beheaded, scorched, stabbed, and Shouted at, and he was heartily sick of the suspicion and hostility he'd experienced so far. He just wanted to deliver the message and get on with what appeared to be his new life.

"There's been a dragon attack on Helgen," he snapped before Tamsyn could say anything. "The place was leveled. Riverwood's in danger and they wanted us to tell you so you could send in the troops. Can we go now?" This last bit was directed at Tamsyn as much as the dark elf, but the armored woman stood a bit straighter and put away her sword.

"Well, that explains why the guards let you in here," she said. "Come with me. Jarl Balgruuf will want to speak to you personally." She turned and retreated to her lord's side, murmuring quietly to him. He sat up straighter and beckoned the two wanderers forward.

Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun was a lean, hard-looking man who appeared to be in his middle forties. There were only a few strands of silver in his otherwise blonde hair, which was captured by a jeweled golden circlet resting around his forehead. His tunic and hose looked to be made of the finest fabric in deep, rich earth tones accented with red and gold, and over this he wore – even in the warm hall – a cape of fur, though his arms were bare. Soft leather boots completed his lordly outfit. His blue eyes speared both Marcus and Tamsyn in turn and his voice, when he spoke, was deep and commanding.

"So," he began, "You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

At this point, Marcus thought of several things he could have said, none of them very nice or diplomatic. This man before him _was_, after all, one of the ruling entities in this new world into which he'd been thrust. There was no sense in antagonizing the man or making an enemy of him. He decided to take a more tactful route. For her part, Tamsyn remained silent beside him, seeming willing to let him take the lead.

"Yes, my lord," Marcus replied. "The dragon attacked Helgen and destroyed it. The last we saw of it, it was headed this way. That was two days ago."

"By Ysmir," the Jarl murmured, "Irileth was right! What do you say now, Proventus?" He turned to the man in gray robes standing behind him to his right. "Do we trust in the strength of our walls, against a dragon?"

The dark elf stepped forward and spoke, urging the Jarl to send troops to Riverwood, as it was in the most immediate danger if the dragon attacked the area again. The man in the gray robes, Proventus, immediately protested that it would be viewed as an act of aggression by another Jarl nearby, but Balgruuf overrode him.

"I'll not sit idly by while a dragon attacks my Hold and slaughters my people!" he shouted. "Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl," the dark elf replied. She saluted and half-bowed, crossing her right arm over her chest, then turned on her heel and left the hall.

"If you'll excuse me, my lord," Proventus said stiffly, "I'll return to my duties." He bowed as well.

"That would be best," Balgruuf snapped. He faced Marcus and Tamsyn again.

"Well done, young man," he smiled. "You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." He rose and went over to a nearby chest and opened it, pulling something out. He came back to Marcus with a suit of heavy steel armor and presented it to him.

"Please," the Jarl insisted, "take this as a small token of my esteem."

Marcus gaped. "Th-thank you, m-my lord!" he stuttered. He turned to look at Tamsyn, who merely smiled and gave him a surreptitious 'thumbs-up' gesture. He bowed awkwardly and wondered if that was it? Were they free to go now? But the Jarl wasn't finished with him yet, it appeared.

"There is another thing you could do for me," Balgruuf said slowly. "Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps? Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and…rumors of dragons."

They followed the Jarl to a room set to one side of the main hall with Marcus wondering as they went how the man would know anything at all about his 'particular talents'. They'd only just met! But he supposed anyone who had managed to escape Helgen and live to tell about it must be either incredibly lucky or incredibly resourceful. He wondered which of those descriptions fit him better, but didn't like his conclusions.

"Farengar," Jarl Balgruuf called out as they entered the smaller chamber. "I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill them in with all the details."

The court wizard, a string-bean of a man not much older than Balgruuf himself, nodded and bowed as the Jarl left them to it. The deep hood of his blue robes obscured most of his face, but Marcus could see ridiculous-looking mutton-chop sideburns crawling down the man's cheeks. Piercing blue eyes looked down a long, thin nose at the two of them. A thin lip half curled in a sort of sneer, and Marcus decided there and then that he didn't like the man at all.

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" the mage began. "Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons." He looked them both up and down again, eyes lingering on Tamsyn's robes. An eyebrow arched, but he made no comment. "Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say 'fetch', I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

At the words 'stone tablet', Marcus suddenly felt very smug, and he glanced over at Tamsyn, who looked as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. He crinkled his eyes at her in amusement and slipped the backpack off his shoulders, digging into it and retrieving the carved piece of rock.

"You mean this stone tablet?" he asked, as innocently as he could, enjoying the expression on the wizard's face as Farengar's jaw dropped.

"Oh!" the older man said faintly. "The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! You already found it!" Farengar's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl foists on me."

"We've found the tablet for you," Tamsyn asked quickly. "What happens now?"

"Ah," Farengar beamed. "Well, that is where your job ends and mine begins. The work of the mind, you see. Sadly underrated here in Skyrim—"

A commotion was escalating in the main hall just outside, and suddenly Irileth rushed in.

"Farengar!" she called sternly. "A dragon has been sighted near the western watchtower! Jarl Balgruuf wants to speak with you at once!" She noticed Marcus and Tamsyn still standing there. "You two had better come, too," she advised them, before running back out into the hall.

"A dragon!" Farengar exclaimed, following her. "How exciting! What was it doing?"

"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you," Irileth said scathingly. "If a dragon does decide to attack Whiterun, I don't know that we can stop it!"

Their voices faded, leaving Marcus and Tamsyn standing in Farengar's study.

"Do we follow them?" Marcus asked her.

"I think we have to, Marcus," she said soberly. "Remember how I said delivering the stone would set off a chain of events? This is that chain playing out."

"But we don't have to fight that thing, do we?" Marcus asked, more than a bit nervous.

"It's not the same dragon, trust me on this one," she assured him. "And we won't be alone; we'll have help. But we have to hit it and hit it hard and fast with everything we've got, or more people will die."

"I can't do spells," Marcus said grimly, "and I'm not that good with a bow yet."

"Then you'll have to take advantage of its time on the ground, and it will be my job to help bring it down," Tamsyn promised. "We can't let another Helgen happen, Marcus."

"No," he agreed bleakly. "But I'm not going up against that thing in this torn leather armor. The Jarl gave me this suit of steel. Do I have time to get into it?"

"You do if I help you," she replied. "But we should still hurry."

Ten minutes later found him still fastening straps as he ran up the stairs to join the Jarl and the others. Tamsyn had filled him in on a few particulars about what to expect, but he still had the feeling she wasn't telling him everything she knew.

"Ah! There you are, young man!" Jarl Balgruuf exclaimed, giving him an approving look as he noticed Marcus wearing the new set of armor. "There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend. I need your help once more. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, both of you, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

So now he was the Jarl's friend? Good to know. Marcus was tempted to remind the Jarl that his 'experience' was limited to surviving an attack, not fighting the damned things, but Balgruuf was speaking again.

"I haven't forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar." He knew about that? He must have been eavesdropping just outside the door then. "I've instructed Avenicci that you are now permitted to purchase property in the city. And please, accept this gift from my personal armory." He presented Marcus with a finely-made steel helmet, which made Marcus feel that much better about facing down a dragon. At least his head had better protection now.

He slipped the hide helmet off and looked at it. He'd made it himself, and it had served him fairly well going through Bleak Falls Barrow. He looked at Tamsyn, in her cloth robes and woolen hood, and offered the hide helmet to her, but she shook her head.

"This hood is enchanted to enhance my magicka," she said quietly, so as not to interrupt the Jarl giving final instructions to Farengar and Irileth. "Just put it away for now."

"One last thing, Irileth," Balgruuf was saying now. "This isn't a 'death or glory' mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

"Don't worry, my lord," she assured him. "I'm the very soul of caution." She headed down the stairs back to the main hall and eventually outside to muster her troops. Marcus and Tamsyn followed in her wake, passing Farengar on the stairs as they did so.

"How I envy you!" Farengar gushed. "The chance to see a real, live dragon! The possibilities for research are endless!"

If he'd had time, Marcus would have given the clueless wizard a dressing down for his naïveté. As it was, he merely barked over his shoulder, "If I ever get a chance to talk with one, I'll make sure you're there!" He didn't see the perplexed, but happy look on the mage's face, and totally missed Tamsyn nearly choking on words unsaid.

They followed Irileth through the darkening streets of Whiterun. Why had the damned thing pick _now_ to attack? It would be nearly impossible to see it in the dark! Tamsyn didn't look happy about it either.

"We should have waited until morning," she muttered, but her comment made no sense. If they'd waited until morning the dragon would still have attacked tonight. Wouldn't it have? He wasn't so sure anymore.

Irileth had gathered a handful of Whiterun's finest, and they stood with the group while she gave them a pep talk.

"We're so dead," one guard muttered, and Marcus hoped he was wrong. Tamsyn seemed to think they could kill the creature, and Irileth seemed bound and determined to make that happen. He had to trust in the lessons Ralof and Faendal had taught him, and hope he lived through this long enough to join the Companions, if they let him in. If he was going to be a mercenary, he wanted to train with the best, and anyone who could bring down a giant ranked high on that short list right now.

And then they were moving, out of the gates of Whiterun, past the drawbridge and the stables, and turning right down a cobblestone road toward the watchtower. As they approached it was obvious to all that the dragon had been there. Marcus wasn't sure what condition the tower had been in to start with – most of the buildings he'd seen so far seemed to be in some state of disrepair – but now it resembled a crumbling ruin, with piles of stone and wood lying scattered and shattered all about. Hot spots of timber and grass burned fiercely, and in the glare Marcus thought he saw burned bodies. He fought down the urge to be sick.

"Spread out," Irileth ordered. "I know it looks bad, but we have to figure out what's happened. See if you can find any survivors."

Marcus wasn't sure where to start looking, but Tamsyn gestured to him to follow her to what remained of the tower. Part of it had tumbled down, forming a broken ramp up to an open doorway. As they approached, a man crazed with fear cried out, "No! No! Stay back! It's still out there! Hroki and Tor got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!"

They must have been the bodies Marcus had seen, and he felt rage fill him. He was tired of running; tired of being afraid. A cold resolve gripped him. Tamsyn was right: they couldn't let another Helgen happen.

"Look out! It's coming back!" he heard a voice cry from outside the tower. He rushed out and in the light of this world's two moons saw a gleaming red shape swooping overhead, roaring out its challenge to lesser beings, and strafing the ground with its flame.

"Marcus!" Tamsyn cried. "Drink this now!" She shoved a bottle into his hand.

"I'm not hurt," he protested, anxious to get into a defensible position.

"It's a potion of Resist Fire," she clarified.

"Oh!" he blinked, before popping the cork off and downing it in one slug. He tossed the empty bottle to one side and charged forward, drawing his battleaxe, because the beast had landed not far away. The next several minutes passed in a blur, and he never remembered whirling the heavy weapon around like a windmill, hacking and slashing at the dragon's face, dodging out of the way as it snapped at him, and letting the wave of fire wash over him. Yes, it stung, but not as badly as he feared, the potion absorbing most of the damage for him.

Vaguely he remembered Irileth shooting it with spikes made of pure ice, and Tamsyn was off to one side somewhere keeping up a steady stream of frost. The other guards peppered its tough hide with their arrows that did little damage, or hacked away at it with their swords. At one point the dragon attempted to get airborne once more, perhaps realizing it had bitten off – figuratively – more than it could chew, but Marcus was relentless. No way in hell was he letting this wyrm get away to terrorize some other village or kill anyone else.

With nearly superhuman effort, he brought the axe down so fiercely that he practically chopped its wing off. It roared as it died, in a language he somehow understood, but couldn't repeat.

"_Dovahkiin, NO!"_ it cried.

The dragon slumped to the ground, bleeding and broken, and the guards around him set up a cheer, many of them slapping him on the back.

"Never seen anyone fight like that!"

"That's a true warrior, that one is!"

"Can't believe we really killed that thing!"

And then suddenly everyone pulled back as the dragon seemed to ignite from within. He stared in horrific fascination as flames erupted from all over its body, consuming without heat. He knew he should move, get out of the way, but he seemed rooted to the spot as some kind of energy hissed forth and streamed outward from the dragon, sinking into him, absorbing, filling, redefining.

Marcus suddenly knew so much more than he did a few short moments ago: the dragon's name was Mir Mul Nir, which meant literally 'Allegiance Strong Hunt', but loosely translated to 'Faithful Strong Warrior'. He had come out of hiding when Alduin had returned, to serve his Thuri, or Lord, once more. And the word he had read the previous day on the curved wall in Bleak Falls Barrow, _fus_, meant 'force'. He knew now how to make it do what the draugr had done to him, and he raised his head to the night skies, blazing with auroras.

"_FUS!"_ he Shouted.

Coming back to himself, he looked around at the people surrounding him. The guards stood in awe, exclaiming he was Dragonborn, like the heroes of old. Irileth was vocal in her doubts, insisting it was all a bunch of legends and that being able to kill a dragon was far more important than some mythical hero of old. Tamsyn said nothing, but looked at him with a mixture of pride and sadness.

"What happens now?" he asked her quietly.

"You should report back to Jarl Balgruuf," Irileth answered before Tamsyn could speak. "He'll want to know what's happened here."

Marcus nodded and gestured to Tamsyn to go on ahead of him. She stopped at the dragon's skeleton and loosened a few smaller bones and scales that had not been consumed when the carcass had ignited.

"What are you going to do with those?" he asked.

"Well, since you don't own a place to store things, you can sell them," she said. "You'll need the cash, anyway. Someday, though, you might want to consider making armor from them."

"You can do that?" he asked as they walked along.

She shook her head in amusement. "Well, I can't, but someday you might."

"Dragonscale armor," he mused. "I like the sound of that. Maybe I'd better hang onto them, then."

"They're heavy," she warned. "Even the scales. You'd need a place of your own to store them until you collect enough, and become a skilled enough smith to craft with them."

"Didn't the Jarl say we could buy property?" he remembered.

"Yes, and I'll show you the place he's got available when we get back," she chuckled. There was a tone in her voice that made him certain once more that she knew more than she was telling him.

"You knew that dragon would attack, didn't you?" he guessed. She merely nodded. "Why didn't you say anything, then?"

"To you or to them?" she asked, stopping. She looked up at him in the moons' light. "Marcus, I told you, I've played hours of the game. I've beaten it several times. I might not remember every little detail, but I know enough to anticipate what may come next. But this is a real world, here, not a scripted game. I can't predict what people will say or do. They have free will, after all."

"I think I understand," he said slowly. "You might know what _could_ happen, but if you tell me, I might do something different to fuck it up, and then we won't know what _will_ happen."

She gave a relieved smile. "Yes! That's it exactly."

He digested this information before speaking again. "So I take it this isn't the end of the game?"

"No," she admitted. "You've barely begun. Remember what I said earlier about the destiny of the Dragonborn? The moment you told me you heard chanting at the Word Wall in Bleak Falls Barrow, chanting that I couldn't hear, I knew _you _were the Dragonborn."

"And I'm the one that has to kill that huge black dragon, Alduin," he nodded. "Tamsyn, I don't think I can. I'm not ready for that fight. I'm not strong enough, I'm not a good enough fighter, and I don't have equipment that will stand up to dragon fire. That potion of yours helped, but I still got scorched."

"Of course you're not ready!" she exclaimed. "You'll need to train yourself up. It's known as 'grinding' in gamer's lingo. And I'm sorry about the burns. You were acting like it didn't bother you."

"I was in the heat of the moment," he smirked wryly, and she chuckled, handing him a couple of potions. Quaffing them took all the sting and hurt away, and he felt a little better about facing this new future of his. "Thanks. Shall we go tell Jarl Balgruuf what happened? It's the least we can do, and then we can be on our way."

He caught a shadow of another of those queer looks of hers, but it passed quickly and she picked up her pack, heading back to Whiterun. He followed behind, hoping the sinking feeling in his gut wasn't related to the look she'd given him.

They got as far as the stables when a thundering voice split the air, making the ground quake under their feet.

"_DOVAHKIIN!"_

The horses whinnied and snorted, rolling their eyes and prancing in place. Even the carriage driver waiting nearby had a hard time keeping his horse from bolting.

"What the fuck was _that_?" Marcus gasped, his heart pounding. The dragon had used that word too. What the hell did it mean?

"The Greybeards," Tamsyn said. "They're summoning the Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn, to High Hrothgar. It's too dark now, or I'd point it out on the side of the mountain there."

"Is that what 'dovahkiin' means?" he questioned her. "Because Mir Mul Nir, the dragon, said that to me when he died. Who are the Greybeards?"

Again Tamsyn nodded. "You'll find out very shortly. We should report to the Jarl. Everyone heard that, and tongues will be wagging now."

They hurried through the streets of Whiterun and Tamsyn quickly pointed out a house situated next to the smithy. "That's Breezehome," she said, briefly. "It's the first home you can buy in the game, and it's likely the one Jarl Balgruuf has available for sale now."

"It's a dump!" he snorted derisively.

"Maybe," she conceded as they hurried along. "But if you do buy it, it's _your_ dump, and you'll have space to store the things you want to keep. You can fix it up; it will be a nice base of operations for you."

"What about Jorrvaskr?" he asked as they passed it. "I thought I might join the Companions and live there."

"You could do that," she agreed, "but there's not much privacy there, and the whelps' quarters are rather small. There's really no place to keep anything there."

That didn't sound very reassuring. He wanted to ask her more about Breezehome, but they were at Dragonsreach by this time, and private conversation was no longer possible.

"Go on ahead," Tamsyn told him. "I'll catch up."

Marcus shrugged and went to speak to the Jarl. He never noticed the private conversation Tamsyn held with a beautiful, young, dark-haired Nord waiting in the shadows.

"You're Lydia, aren't you?" the red-haired mage clarified.

"Why—yes, I am," the young warrior woman admitted. "How did you know?"

"Jarl Balgruuf is going to make Marcus Thane of Whiterun, isn't he," Tamsyn said, though it was more of a statement than a question.

"That's privileged information," Lydia said stiffly. "I shouldn't be discussing that with you."

"Nevertheless," the Breton girl chuckled, "Marcus will be made Thane, and the Jarl has already assigned you to be his Housecarl."

Lydia gasped and stared at the other girl. "How can you possibly know these things?" she wondered.

Tamsyn shrugged. "I'm Tamsyn, and I'm something of a Seer, Lydia," she replied. She hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. "Take good care of him, will you? I mean, I know you've vowed to protect him with your life, but he's _really _inexperienced. He's going to need all the help he can get."

"But you'll be with him, too," Lydia said. "Won't you? I thought the two of you were—" She left the statement unfinished, and Tamsyn chuckled wryly.

"No, we're not in a relationship," she said firmly. "We were just traveling together for a time. But he has to make his own way now, and with your help, he can do it. He's Dragonborn, you know."

"I know," Lydia said softly, eyes shining with pride. "Word has raced ahead of you, and we all heard the Greybeards' call."

"Then you'll know how important it is for him to prepare to face his destiny," Tamsyn said. "Watch over him, Lydia," she repeated. "And give him this from me. It's most of the gold and gems we collected. If he does a few bounty jobs and he's careful with his money, he should have enough to buy Breezehome in a week or so, and get it properly furnished." She handed over a hefty coin purse.

"But some of this is rightfully yours!" Lydia protested, accepting it. "Where will you go?"

Tamsyn turned to leave, and said over her shoulder, "Winterhold, to the College there. I'm going to study magic. I won't need all that gold, just enough to get myself there and buy my way in." She took one final look down to the end of the hall, where Marcus was accepting the Axe of Whiterun, a large, double-bladed battleaxe that she could tell from here had a stamina drain enchantment on it. Well, that should make him very happy.

"Good-bye and good luck, Lydia," she smiled warmly. "Be safe." Tamsyn turned and left Dragonsreach for good.

"Good-bye, Tamsyn," Lydia said softly, still confused, then turned back to wait for her new Thane.

END

_**[Notes:**__ So there you have it: safely delivered into his new life. Whatever happens from here on, Marcus should be able to cope with it. Hope you've enjoyed this bit of drabble. Thanks for reading, and sticking with it to the end.]_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_[Author's Note: And I'm back with another chapter (or two or three) of Marcus' life as he adjusts from being taken out of our world and being thrown into Skyrim, when he's never even heard of the game before. Tamsyn has left him and he's angry and bewildered by that, but before he can go looking for her, he's got to see some monks up on their mountain to find out what all the Shouting is about. Also, I've dispensed with Chapter titles, since it's hard for me to come up with something relevant. The first four were fun because it seemed to fit, but I'm stumped now. Enjoy!]_

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><p>It was embarrassing, really, Marcus thought to himself. Everyone from the Jarl of Whiterun on down seemed to think he had singlehandedly taken down Mir Mul Nir. He knew better than anyone that he'd had plenty of help, but Jarl Balgruuf didn't seem inclined to pause long enough in his accolades for Marcus to point out the obvious.<p>

Marcus kept trying to surreptitiously glance behind him to see how Tamsyn was taking all this. She must have been standing directly behind him, however, because he couldn't see her from the corners of his eyes.

"Ah, well." Marcus brought his attention back to the Jarl, who appeared to be finally winding down. "Go to High Hrothgar," he said. "See what the Greybeards can teach you."

The Greybeards. They were the ones who thundered the word "Dovahkiin" across the skies earlier. Everyone in Skyrim had to have heard that call.

Balgruuf stood and motioned Marcus to step forward. "You've done a great service to me and my people, Dragonborn," he said. "It gives me great pleasure to name you Thane of my city. It's the highest honor that's within my power to grant." He offered a large, steel, double-bladed battleaxe to Marcus that shimmered with an eerie green glow. "I present you with this axe from my personal armory as a token of my esteem, and I'll assign Lydia to you as a personal Housecarl. We are honored to have you as a Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

Marcus numbly accepted the axe, and turned to grin at Tamsyn, as if to say, "Can you believe this?" but the smile fell off his face when he realized Tamsyn wasn't there.

"Well, Proventus," he heard Balgruuf say behind him. "Back to the business of managing the Hold, eh?"

It was as much of a dismissal as he was going to get, Marcus realized, and he took it gratefully, practically sprinting down the steps to see where Tamsyn had gone. He didn't see the tall, dark-haired Nord woman until he almost plowed into her.

"Ungh! Sorry!" he muttered, awkwardly trying to catch her with one hand while trying not to impale her with the battleaxe held in the other.

"It's alright, my Thane," the woman replied.

Wait. Thane? Didn't the Jarl say something about giving him a servant of some kind?

"I'm a Thane?" Marcus blinked. "What's a Thane?"

The woman smiled. "The Jarl has awarded you with the title of Thane in recognition of your service," she replied. "Guards will know to look the other way if you tell them who you are."

So, corruption not only existed here, too, it was actually acknowledged and encouraged. "And…you're my servant?"

A flash of indignation sparked in the woman's eyes. "Your _Housecarl,_ my Thane," she clarified. "And as my Thane, I am sworn to protect you and all you own with my life." There was definitely a strong suggestion of pride in her tone.

Marcus was still having trouble wrapping his mind around this. "And you're okay with this?"

"Of course!" the woman exclaimed. Oh, what was her name? Lydia! That was it! "Why wouldn't I be?" she continued. "It's a great honor!"

"How can you be my Housecarl when I haven't even got a house?" Marcus asked wryly.

Lydia smiled. "Well, I know there's one available, if you have the coin."

"Yeah, that's the problem," Marcus muttered. "Look, have you seen a young, red-haired girl hanging around here? We came in together."

An indecipherable expression flashed across Lydia's face so quickly that Marcus might have missed it if he hadn't been staring right at her.

"She left, my Thane," she finally admitted. "She gave me this to give to you." Lydia handed over the coin purse. Marcus realized that it quite possibly contained all the coin he and Tamsyn had earned this past week.

"What do you mean, she left?" he demanded, rushing to the huge iron-clad wooden doors. The guards sprang into action and pulled them open for him before he got there. Rushing outside he scanned the city from his vantage point at the top of the Cloud District, but in the glare of the braziers and the gloom of night beyond, he could see nothing.

Tamsyn was gone.

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><p>Marcus attempted to keep his temper under control. He didn't like raising his voice; he liked to think he had successfully raised three wonderful children in his past life with very little yelling. Add to that fact that if he shouted here he might very well bring the roof down on their heads.<p>

He and Lydia had retreated to the Bannered Mare, after Marcus had unsuccessfully scoured Whiterun looking for Tamsyn. How could the girl have simply _vanished_ the way she had? And why had she left? There was still so much he didn't know about this Skyrim, and she was the only one who could guide him through it.

"Tell me one more time, Lydia," he said evenly, trying to wrap his mind around it. "What exactly did she say?"

"I've already told you twice, my Thane!" Lydia protested wearily. "She seemed to know who I was without my saying a word. She knew you were to be named Thane, and she told me to look after you, that you would need a lot of help. She said you needed to make your own way from now on."

"That's it?" he pressed. "You're sure she didn't say where she was going? Or why she didn't take the money with her?"

"She said she wouldn't need it where she was going," Lydia said, keeping her face as neutral as she could. "I don't know where she is," she prevaricated. It was stretching the truth, and she knew it. Technically, she did not, in fact, know exactly where the red-haired Breton girl was _at this moment._ It would depend whether she caught the last carriage out of Whiterun or if she had to wait, or if she decided to walk to Winterhold. Unlikely, but possible.

Lydia hated having to hide the truth from her Thane, but there had been an unspoken exchange between the two women before Tamsyn turned and left Dragonsreach; a wordless plea that Lydia could read as clear as a printed letter. _Don't tell him where I'm going._ Lydia had given a quick nod before turning back to the proceedings at the top of the hall.

So now she had to lie to her Thane. _Not a good start to the relationship, there, Lyds,_ she scoffed at herself.

But her Thane seemed to finally accept reality and asked no further questions about the mysterious Seer. "Let's get some sleep, then," he sighed. "There's only the one bed, but I promise you you're safe from me. I won't betray your trust."

_As I've already done yours,_ the Nord woman thought guiltily.

"There's no need for that, my Thane," she replied. "I'm used to roughing it. I have a bedroll I can lay out on the floor."

They spent the next ten minutes arguing over that until finally, in weariness, Marcus gave in. It was several more minutes, lying in the darkness, before he was finally able to get to sleep. For her part, Lydia seemed to be able to sleep anywhere, as she was already snoring softly.

Marcus awoke bright and early the next morning, but not, apparently, before his Housecarl. Lydia was already packed up and downstairs. He wondered if he had to pay her a salary, then realized he had no way of broaching the subject in any manner that wouldn't be embarrassing.

_Well, it's not as if you haven't been in that kind of situation before,_ he thought wryly. He'd just have to ask and let the chips fall where they may. He spent a few minutes counting out the coins left in the pouch; almost three thousand in total. They were all identical: someone's head on the obverse side – probably the ruler of this world – and a dragon on the other. They seemed to be of the same denomination, too, and he wondered briefly if they had paper money here. Probably not. From what he'd seen so far, this society was still firmly entrenched in the gold standard. It was going to be a problem before too much longer. The gold coins were heavy, and the more he accumulated, the more they were going to weigh him down.

Deciding to wait until after breakfast before wriggling into the heavy steel armor, Marcus put the coins away and headed downstairs. Lydia was already there, waiting for him. They broke their fast on cheese, bread and fresh fruit washed down with some ale – not his first choice, but there didn't seem to be any coffee in Skyrim – and planned what to do next. Marcus decided to start with his first question of the day.

"Lydia, do I pay you a salary?"

The look of pure, unadulterated scandal she shot him answered his question.

"Certainly not, my Thane!" she gasped. "I'm no hired hand!"

"But what do you live on?" he pressed. "I mean, you've got expenses like everyone else."

"I was in the service of Jarl Balgruuf before being elevated to become your Housecarl," she replied, doing her best to remember what Tamsyn had said, that her Thane would need a lot of help. "He saw to my expenses while I served him. Now I serve you."

Marcus nodded. Okay, so anything she needed, he would have to provide. It was like having a wife without the fringe benefits. A wife who was sworn to guard him with her life, clad in steel armor and wielding a sword and shield.

"What kind of weapons do you prefer?" he asked, not sure where the thought came from.

Lydia blinked. No one had ever asked her that. She had been trained in many kinds, and was proficient with them all, but no one had ever asked her what she liked to use.

"Well," she hesitated. "I prefer one-handed weapons, my Thane," she answered slowly. "It allows me to block with a shield, of course. They don't do as much damage as, say, a battleaxe, but they're faster, and if you move quickly enough, it's harder for your enemy to hit you."

"And you like the heavier armor?" Marcus asked.

"Of course, Thane!" Her answer was prompt and full of confidence. "Good steel armor is much better than something made of boiled leather or cured hides. Even the elven armors – nice as they are – just can't protect you the way Dwarven or Orcish armors can."

"What about armor made from dragon bones?" Marcus was still debating whether to keep them or not.

Lydia considered his question carefully. "I know it can be done," she answered. "But it would take more bones than you have right now, and I don't know anyone who could make it for you, even if you killed a lot of dragons and saved all their bones. I've heard that a really good craftsman can make a lighter armor from their scales, which is even tougher than ebony, but I think it really depends on the skill of the smith creating them."

Well, that answered that question for him. With no home of his own at the moment, he wasn't planning on lugging Mir Mul Nir's bones all over God's Little Green Acre in the hope of having a suit of armor made from them. He'd have to sell them, if he could find someone interested in them.

"Jarl Balgruuf told me I should answer the Greybeards' summons," he told Lydia now.

"Yes, all of Whiterun heard their call last night," she said eagerly.

"I'm pretty sure all of Skyrim heard it," he grinned. "The problem is I don't know how to get there. Have you ever been to this High Hrothgar?"

Lydia shook her head. "No, my Thane, I haven't. But I know how to get to Ivarstead, and that village lies at the foot of the mountain on the eastern side. The Seven Thousand Steps begin there, so I'm told."

"Great!" Marcus exclaimed. "And by the way, it's just 'Marcus'. You don't have to keep calling me 'Thane'."

"But you _are_ my Thane," Lydia replied perplexed. "It's the proper form of address for a Housecarl to use in the presence of her Thane."

Marcus rolled his eyes. It was going to take him a long time to get used to the customs around here, he could see that now. "Look," he said, as reasonably as he could, "I feel a little funny hearing you call me that. Couldn't you make an exception to the rule?"

A look of bewilderment crossed the Nord woman's face before smoothing into an understanding smile. "You're new to the title," she said. "In time you'll come to accept it. In fact, the more I use your title, the sooner you're likely to get used to it."

Marcus could see he wasn't going to win this argument either. "Alright, fine, have it your way," he grumbled. "But maybe, when we're not in public, like out on the road or something, just call me by my name, okay? If you scream 'Look out, my Thane!' I might not react as fast as if you yell, 'Marcus, look out!' Okay?"

Lydia considered the propriety of this and finally gave a consenting nod. Lapses in discipline like this were to be avoided at all cost. She'd heard too many stories of Housecarls who'd become too friendly with their Thanes. They either ended up as sex slaves or dead because they let their emotions get in the way of doing their job. She had no desire to end up either way. Best to keep things on as formal a footing as possible.

Though she had to admit, for an Imperial, he was a handsome man with his dark hair swept back from his finely-chiseled features, and his neatly-trimmed beard and moustache. There didn't seem to be an ounce of spare flesh on his muscled body, which looked as though it had taken a beating recently.

_The dragon, Lydders, remember?_ Oh yeah. Right.

They went back upstairs to pack things up. Marcus began to struggle into his armor, and suddenly Lydia was there helping him.

"You can't put it on properly unless you've undone all the straps, my Thane," she chided gently, loosening everything and refitting it around him. "And I noticed last night you weren't wearing it properly. If you had been, the dragon might not have hurt you so badly."

"You don't have to do this, you know," Marcus said sourly. "I _do_ know how to get dressed."

"Clearly you don't, my Thane," she scolded him, "and yes, I _do_ have to do this. It's part of a Housecarl's duty to prepare you for battle."

"I'm not going into battle," he argued.

"You don't know that," she shot back, cinching the straps across his shoulders tighter than he would have liked. "A fight could break out at any time, or you could walk right into a Stormcloak ambush." She pulled the side straps tight and buckled them, tugging the cuirass down into place. "Always wear your armor," she intoned, as she retrieved the gauntlets and gave them to him. "It's the first thing we're taught in the guard service."

"Is that why you slept in yours last night?" he scowled at being chided, but he had to admit the weight felt much more evenly distributed now. He also noticed that during her entire lecture, she hadn't once called him "Thane".

"Absolutely," Lydia said staunchly. "In time you'll get used to it, to the point where you won't even notice the weight anymore. But until then, if you want to stay alive – or at least have a better chance of it – you wear your armor at all times."

Lydia stepped back to look her Thane over. He wore the armor uneasily, as if he'd never worn anything that large, heavy and cumbersome around his body. She hoped her words would prove right, that he would soon get used to it. That mysterious Seer, Tamsyn, had said her new Thane would need quite a lot of help, and she could tell already that was true. If Thane Marcus truly _was_ Dragonborn, the fabled hero of the Nords, she owed it to Skyrim to prepare him for what lay ahead.

She followed her Thane out of the Bannered Mare and into the market district, tagging along after him as he sold off excess weapons and armor he'd picked up before he'd come to Whiterun. As her Thane bartered with Belethor, the sleazy little Breton kept leering at her behind her Thane's back. Lydia kept her temper. A public brawl would be too much of an embarrassment, and might get her dismissed from the Dragonborn's service; if that were to ever happen, it certainly would not be on account of Belethor. She'd make sure it was something worth far more.

As Marcus pulled dragon bones and scales from his sack – the last items in it he intended to sell, Belethor sniffed and sneered.

"Are those _real_ dragon bones? Those aren't just mammoth bones you picked up off the plains now, are they? Because believe me, I can tell the difference."

"My Thane would never attempt to deceive an _honest_ merchant!" Lydia said with some heat.

"Lydia, please!" Marcus soothed. "I'm sure he didn't mean—"

"Yes he did!" Lydia stormed. She leaned across the counter and grabbed Belethor by his collar. "You implied my Thane is untrustworthy, didn't you?" she demanded, glaring at the little man. "You practically called him a liar! You're lucky you're still alive, you worthless piece of refuse! Do you know who this is? _Do you?_"

Marcus was alarmed. He didn't need overzealous Housecarls intimidating everyone with whom he attempted to conduct business.

Belethor was squirming in Lydia's grip. By the Eight, but this woman was strong! In spite of the situation, he realized his traitorous body was responding to the rough treatment. "I didn't mean – I mean, I'm sorry! It's just that—"

"Lydia, let go of him!" Marcus threw as much command into his voice as he could muster, but really, the sight of his Housecarl practically dangling the shopkeeper over his own counter was a bit comical, when you thought about it.

Lydia looked back at Marcus to see him frowning at her. Or at least, he was trying to look stern, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that told her he wasn't upset at all. Inwardly, she relaxed. Affecting a casual air of indifference, she dropped Belethor onto the counter with a languid, "As you wish, my Thane," before stepping back.

Belethor landed with an "oof!" as the wind was knocked from him. He quickly righted himself, however, and hurriedly assured Marcus he never intended to cast doubts about his customer's integrity. There were scum out there, the Thane must know, who would not hesitate to deceive an honest merchant like himself. He kept glancing at Lydia as he spoke, and there was a flame of desire in his eyes. Marcus either didn't see it, or he ignored it, but Lydia saw and raised her chin in a clear act of defiance that only served to fan Belethor's inner flame.

In the end, Marcus sold only one set of bones to the Breton, feeling the need to get some fresh air.

"What a scumbag!" he muttered under his breath as they exited the shop. Lydia smiled in relief. Her Thane wasn't angry with her. "Next time, Lydia, I promise I won't stop you from beating the crap out of him," he grinned at her.

She cracked her knuckles and smiled back. "As you wish, my Thane," she smirked.

"Where else am I going to sell these bones and scales, though?" Marcus asked, worried. The damn things were heavy, and he had no place to call his own. He still wanted to check out Jorrvaskr, but right now it appeared he had to go to High Hrothgar first. And he sure as hell wasn't going to lug dragon bones and scales up seven thousand steps.

"We could talk to Arcadia," Lydia suggested. "She's at the alchemy shop right over there. She might be interested in them."

Arcadia, as it turned out, was _very_ interested in them, and bought everything he had. She seemed to have a fixation on disease, though, as she constantly asked him if he was feeling alright. He purchased several more healing and stamina potions from the woman before he and Lydia left to start on their way to High Hrothgar.

"One moment, Thane," Lydia said as they passed Warmaiden's.

"What is it?" Marcus asked.

"Your cuirass," she said, stepping closer. "It could use some repair work."

Marcus mused. "Do we have time?"

Lydia smiled. "We have all the time in the world, my Thane," she answered. "We're not expected to arrive at High Hrothgar at a specific time."

"Good."

Marcus went over and spoke to Adrianne, who was working at the grinding wheel. After a short conversation and the purchase of a few supplies, she graciously allowed him the use of her workbench while she continued sharpening swords and axes.

It took longer than he expected to pound all the dents out of his armor. The cuirass seemed to have taken the worst of the damage, but there were dents in his helmet as well. When he finally finished, the sun was low in the sky.

"I guess we won't be going to High Hrothgar today," he told Lydia resignedly.

"No, my Thane, but you've accomplished a lot today, so don't feel bad."

"Yeah, and thanks for the tips on wearing the armor. It already feels better. Still heavy, though."

"You'll get used to it," she assured him as they headed back to the Bannered Mare. Lydia waved at Carlotta, the woman who ran the produce stand in the market.

"How are you today, Carlotta?" Lydia called.

"Oh, alright, I guess," the woman replied, but she certainly didn't sound like it.

"Something wrong?" Lydia asked, grateful to see her Thane had paused. Carlotta Valentia was a good friend of hers, and if the woman was in trouble, she wanted to help.

"You know, life is hard enough without all these men propositioning me," Carlotta sighed. "But that bard is the worst!"

"Mikael?" Lydia exclaimed. "What's he done now?"

"Someone giving you trouble?" Marcus rumbled dangerously. Carlotta seemed older than the daughters he'd left behind, but if anyone had insulted his girls, Marcus would have gone into full-blown "Dad mode", as his daughter Kelly called it.

"I overheard him bragging at the Bannered Mare the other day," Carlotta said, irritated. "He said he'd 'conquer me as a true Nord conquers any wild animal'! Pfah!" She snorted. "They'll never understand that right now the only thing that matters to me is raising my daughter."

Marcus could understand that. And he felt a sense of outrage towards this Mikael person for spreading that kind of gossip about a woman just trying to make it through one day at a time.

"How about if I talk to him for you?" he offered.

"You can try," Carlotta said dubiously. "But I don't think anything will get through that thick head of his."

"We'll see about that," Marcus promised, turning back toward the Bannered Mare. Lydia practically skipped to keep up with him, her heart soaring. She _knew_ he was a good man!

The inn was crowded again as more and more people came in after their long work day ended, intending to enjoy a meal, some music and the camaraderie of their fellow citizens. The fire blazed brightly in the pit in the center of the room, and above the din of scores of voices, Marcus heard the innkeeper, Hulda, telling him to find a place to sit and she'd be with him shortly. Saadia, the dark-skinned girl – Redguard, Lydia murmured to him when he asked – was rushing around filling food and drink orders, and even more than the previous night, when it had been fairly quiet, the Mare reminded Marcus of any bar he'd ever been in back home.

At the far end of the room, on the other side of the fire pit, was the bard, Mikael. He was leering after several of the pretty young girls, and that alone clinched it for the Dragonborn. He strode over and tapped the man on his shoulder.

"Oh! What can I do for you?" the minstrel asked brightly. "A song perhaps? Or an epic tale of adventure and…romance…" His voice dropped seductively as he caught sight of Lydia standing respectfully behind her Thane.

_What a pathetic fop,_ Marcus thought. _This guy thinks he's God's gift to women._

"You need to leave Carlotta alone," he said bluntly.

"What?" Mikael blinked. Then his brow furrowed and he smiled slyly. "Carlotta put you up to this, didn't she?" He smirked. "I'm sorry, but that fiery widow is mine. She just doesn't know it yet!"

"She's not yours," Marcus said, losing patience. "You need to stop this foolishness right now." There was a warning edge to his voice, but clearly, Mikael never heard it.

"What's that?" he grinned. "Do I detect a note of jealousy? Sorry, friend. You can have her when I'm done. But I wouldn't hold your breath. Once Mikael gets them, they stay gotten."

"That's it." Marcus never remembered if he said the words or just thought them. All he remembered was drawing his fist back and making it connect with as much force as possible with the bard's jaw.

Mikael staggered, but despite his lean frame and somewhat leisurely lifestyle, he was a Nord through and through. "So that's the way it's going to be, eh?" He carefully set down his lute and turned to face Marcus.

"Winner gets Carlotta!" he grinned.

"She's not a prize to be won, idiot," Marcus growled. "Carlotta is her own person, and you need to stop spreading lies about her!"

Several of the women in the crowd cheered at that, and Mikael looked a bit less sure of himself, but he'd gone too far to back out. He threw a punch that Marcus easily side-stepped, but followed it up quickly with a sweep of his foot that kicked Marcus' legs out from under him. Heavier in his armor than Mikael, who wasn't wearing any, Marcus crashed to the floor and suddenly the minstrel was on top of him, pummeling him with his fist.

"Are you just going to lie there and take that?" Lydia yelled. "Get up and punch him again!"

_Whatever happened to 'I will protect you with my life'?_ Marcus thought grimly, but to be fair, he knew he was in very little danger from the bard. His face might get battered, but there was no way Mikael would be able to hurt him through the heavy steel armor. He just needed to get up. He felt like an upturned turtle.

Fortunately, this body he was now in was a lot younger, stronger and more agile than the one he'd left behind. He managed to get his knees up and thrust, kicking the young Nord off him. Mikael sprawled over his head and crashed against the bar, but to his credit, he got right up again.

A hand grabbed Marcus' gauntleted fist and dragged him to his feet. He straightened up and looked straight into Lydia's brown eyes.

"Unprotected midsection," she murmured. He grinned in comprehension and gave a short nod.

Mikael looked ready again, and the crowd was shouting encouragement from all quarters.

"Ten septims on Mikael!" one voice called out.

"I'll take that," said a woman near the bar.

"Show that pompous oaf no mercy!" a woman in plated steel urged him.

"Come on, Mikael, you can take him!" a gravely-voiced man said.

Now the punches flew in earnest as each man tried to drive the other into the floorboards. Marcus blocked the punches he saw coming and endured the ones he didn't. He tried not to think too long about _where_ to hit his opponent; just landing a blow was enough. He was lucky that a lot of them were landing. He could see Mikael was wearing out, and knew that he was, too. It was time to take this fight to the next level and end it.

Most of the fighting he'd seen so far had been a typical bar room brawl style: a lot of punching. Marcus didn't think any of the Mare's patrons knew about martial arts, and while his days of karate and tae kwon do were long behind him, he still remembered the moves. All he needed was an opening, and the foolish bard was kind enough to give him one.

Clearly feeling that it was time to end the fight as well, Mikael opted for brute force and bull-rushed Marcus, who neatly side-stepped him once more and clotheslined him across the mid-section. With a _whoosh_ of escaping breath, Mikael went down to his knees, gasping for air.

"Do you yield?" Marcus demanded.

"Not yet!" Mikael snapped, sweeping his leg out again, but this time Marcus was prepared. He caught the leg as it came at him and used the momentum to propel the bard backwards across the benches.

"Do you yield?" the Dragonborn ground out, breathing a bit harder.

"I'll never yield!" Mikael shouted, leaping to his feet and grabbing the first thing to come into his hands. To everyone's surprise, the heavy wooden bench lifted off the floor as Mikael swung it around directly at Marcus' head. Gasps of outrage filled the room. Mikael had clearly broken some unwritten law about bar room brawls.

Marcus dropped to the floor and let momentum work for him again. This time, it was the bench's momentum that carried Mikael around, staggering as it connected with the support pillar. The bench was ripped from the bard's hands, and Mikael spun into the fire pit.

A shriek higher than any note the bard had ever sung filled the room as he lunged out, clothing ignited and hair smoldering. Leaping to his feet, Marcus grabbed the rug off the floor and tackled the bard, patting the flames down and smothering them. While he would have liked to do the same to the bard, he was glad to see he still had _some_ restraint.

Another gasp filled the room, but this one was an audible sigh of relief as everyone realized a potential crisis had been averted.

Marcus helped Mikael sit up and gave him a healing potion that Lydia handed off to him. The young Nord drank it gratefully and nodded his thanks.

"Well?" Marcus asked. Mikael knew to what his rival referred.

"On my honor," he breathed. "I won't bother Carlotta anymore."

Satisfied, Marcus stood and headed for the door, ignoring the congratulations of the crowd.

"Good man! Helping him like that, even if you _were_ fighting."

"There goes an honorable man!"

"I wish someone would fight for _me_ like that!"

Once outside, Marcus accepted a second potion from Lydia. His nose was bloodied and his lip was split, and he was all over bruises. He still didn't understand how the potion worked, healing everything to the way it was before instantaneously, but he decided he really didn't need to know _how_ it worked, as long as it did.

They retraced their steps back to Carlotta's stall, where she was just packing up the produce that hadn't sold.

"Good news, Carlotta!" Lydia chirped. Marcus shot her a scowl, but smiled at the green-grocer.

"Mikael won't be bothering you anymore," he promised her.

"You're kidding!" the Imperial woman exclaimed. "You got that bard to leave me alone?" Her face split into a broad grin. "I'd thank the gods, but I'll settle for thanking _you!"_ She pulled out a small pouch of coins and offered it to Marcus. "Here! It's not much, but take it anyway. And thanks!"

Marcus stared at the coin purse. He hadn't done it for the money. He wasn't a mercenary.

_But if you join the Companions, that's exactly what you'll be,_ a little voice inside said. Still, this was a matter of principle.

"Keep it," he said, smiling to take the sting of rejection out of his words. "Buy your daughter a new dress or something with it." He turned and went back to the Bannered Mare to rent the room for another night. Lydia gave an apologetic grin and shrugged at her friend.

"He's new at this," she said.

"He's a good man," Carlotta smiled.

Lydia nodded. "I know."

* * *

><p>It was some time before Marcus was able to climb the stairs to his room. Everyone kept wanted to buy him a drink – even Mikael, who seemed to hold no grudge against the man who had bested him. When it became known he was also the Dragonborn, and the new Thane of Whiterun on top of that, the wine and mead flowed freely all night long.<p>

To his credit, Marcus accepted the camaraderie graciously and allowed the citizens of his new hometown to celebrate him in their own way. He kept his head about him and didn't drink as much as he could have. He'd already learned that lesson to a painful cost.

As he climbed the rickety wooden stairs he saw a small shape huddled under them; a child, perhaps no more than seven or eight years old, watching the proceedings but not participating.

"Lydia," he said as they entered the rented room, "who is that little girl under the stairs?"

"Little girl?" Lydia yawned. "Was she wearing a green dress or a blue one?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It was dark under there. I only saw her as we were climbing up here. Why? What difference does the color of her dress make?"

"Well, Carlotta was in here with her daughter, Mila, earlier, and Mila was wearing a blue dress today."

"Mila wears her hair tied back, doesn't she?" Marcus asked, remembering the child as he unfastened the buckles on the cuirass.

"Yes, my Thane," Lydia answered, working on the side straps for him.

"This little girl's hair was loose," he mused.

"Oh!" Lydia exclaimed. "That might be Lucia, then."

"Does she belong to Hulda?" Marcus inquired, wondering if there were any age restrictions in Skyrim that prevented underage children from entering bars.

"No, Thane," Lydia said. "Lucia's the little beggar girl that hangs around the park in the Wind District."

"What?" Marcus spun around, away from Lydia's grasping fingers. The Housecarl "tsk'd" exasperatedly as she reached again for the straps.

"Are you telling me there's a child begging in the streets and no one's doing anything about it?" he demanded.

_Uh oh,_ Lydia thought. _He's upset._

"Well," she hesitated, "it's just that with the war going on, there are all sorts of orphans across Skyrim, and there aren't enough resources to—"

"Bullshit!" Marcus scowled. "The Jarl ought to be ashamed of himself! Children are dependent on adults to take care of them. When that support is gone, the government needs to step in and provide for them!"

Lydia blinked at her Thane. She had no idea why the matter upset him so much. Children became orphaned all the time in Tamriel. They either managed to survive or they didn't. It was harsh, but that was just the way it was. She said as much – as diplomatically as she could – to her Thane.

"I'm going down there right now and find her," he muttered. Pulling away from Lydia, leaving the cuirass in her hands, he marched back down the stairs, but the child was gone.

"Where did she go?" he asked one of the revelers. "The little girl, Lucia. She was just over there a bit ago."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sinmir grumbled. "I don't pay attention to children. I'm more concerned about the security here in Whiterun. It's appalling, is what it is!"

Disgusted, Marcus tore himself away from the drunken man and went looking for Hulda.

"Where's Lucia?" he demanded when he found her. "The little girl who was in here earlier?"

"Lucia?" Hulda blinked. "The little beggar girl? She left about fifteen minutes ago. I don't know where she goes when she leaves here."

"You don't even know where she stays at night?" Marcus was horrified. _Anything_ could happen to the child living on the streets late at night.

"I let her stay by the fire sometimes, when it gets cold," Hulda snapped, "but I've got far too many other things on my mind right now than worrying about a child to whom I'm no kin. Like stopping another fight—hey! You two there! Take it outside!" Hulda rushed over to where two patrons were escalating into another fistfight.

_Funny,_ Marcus thought sourly, _she didn't make any effort to stop my fight with Mikael. She was probably betting on the outcome._

Stepping outside briefly, Marcus scanned the quiet streets of the marketplace. The only people he saw were guards stationed at the corner near Arcadia's Cauldron and patrolling up the stairs towards the park. There was no sign of the child.

Dispirited and more concerned than he liked to admit, Marcus retreated back inside and headed up to his room. He said nothing to Lydia as he prepared for bed, and that young Nord woman exercised restraint of her own by saying nothing to him. In the morning he had to leave for High Hrothgar, but he drifted off to an uneasy sleep filled with dragons attacking children, and he was helpless to stop it because he'd forgotten his armor.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Just because you've left a life behind doesn't mean it leaves you. Marcus will never forget where he came from, though in time those memories might dim a bit. He will learn quickly enough that this isn't his old world, and things he took for granted there no longer apply here. Especially where social reform is concerned.]<em>


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_[Author's Note: It's off to High Hrothgar, with a stop along the way. Marcus learns more about Skyrim and its people, as well as a new Shout, and in the process, learns more about the Greybeards than even he might be comfortable knowing.]_

* * *

><p>"Are there <em>really <em>seven thousand steps, Lydia?" Marcus grunted as they rounded a hairpin turn to see more of the stone stairs crawling up the side of the mountain.

"I've never actually counted them, my Thane," she huffed, shouldering her pack. "Would you like me to go back down and confirm their number?"

He chuckled at her tone. "No, not really," he relented. "I'd like to get there sometime in _this_ century."

So far it hadn't been that bad. It turned out that Lydia had had the foresight to bring a map along, and as they went along, she pointed out landmarks to Marcus that he might not recognize otherwise. Closer to the city were the farms and the meadery, and beyond the crossroads by the White River, Lydia pointed out a cave just barely visible from the road.

"White River Watch," she told him. "A notorious bandit hide-out. The Jarl kept sending us up there every now and then to clear them out, so they didn't threaten travelers on the road, but with the war going on, he hasn't had anyone to spare."

"I thought he hadn't taken a side yet," Marcus said.

"He hasn't," Lydia admitted. "But he has a large Hold to patrol, to make sure neither Imperials or Stormcloaks get too possessive of the territory. And now we have dragons to worry about."

Marcus nodded before asking, "What happened to whatever loot the bandits gathered?"

"It would go into the Jarl's coffers, of course," Lydia replied, surprised he would ask.

"And now that he can't send anyone there?"

Lydia's eyes widened before a sly look of conspiracy took over. "Well, I'm sure that would belong to whoever could take it from the bandits, my Thane," she grinned. "The Jarl would never object. There might even be a bounty reward in it for some clever, enterprising person or persons."

"A good way to make money quickly, eh?" her Thane quipped. "Let's look into that on the way back."

Feeling satisfied with himself, Marcus took the road that headed south toward Riverwood: the same road he had traveled to get to Whiterun just a few days before. He really hoped to make some serious coin quickly, if he hoped to get the house in Whiterun and have a permanent place to live. The business trips he'd been forced to take in the past confirmed his own belief that he was never meant to live out of a suitcase – or in his current situation, a backpack.

They had left Whiterun just as the sun had come up and had passed Helgen by mid-morning. The sight of the scorched stones and smashed timbers of the buildings beyond the wall made him shudder, and he hurried past it as quickly as he could. The found a Stormcloak encampment on the way, and Lydia persuaded the lookouts that her Thane was not an Imperial spy.

"I met one of your soldiers," Marcus insisted. "He helped me. His name is Ralof of Riverwood."

"Ralof?" the lookout repeated. "I heard he died in Helgen!"

"No," Marcus said, repressing another shudder. "He and I escaped together. He said he was going to re-join Ulfric Stormcloak, who was also there."

The look on the man's face was almost comical in its reverence. "You've met the Stormcloak, then?" he breathed. "Is he as tall as they say? Did he use the Voice? I'll bet he took out twenty Imperials all by himself!"

Marcus had to bite his own tongue to keep from blurting that the last time he'd seen the Jarl of Windhelm, he was cowering in a tower while the dragon raged overhead.

"He's tall," Marcus admitted. "Maybe a bit taller than me. I never heard him Shout, though."

"You're a lucky bastard," the man grinned. "Look, we don't have much here, but if you're in need of anything, go talk to the Quartermaster. I'm sure she'll fix you up."

She? Well, good to see the Stormcloaks at least didn't discriminate rank based on gender.

"And if you know any true sons and daughters of Skyrim," the lookout continued, "tell them to head to Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak can use all the good fighting men and women he can get."

_I'll just bet he does,_ Marcus thought, but again, he kept that to himself. Not needed any supplies, and reluctant to take what little the encampment had, Marcus set off down the road again with Lydia close behind.

They passed Haemar's Shame, which Lydia told him was the last refuge of a fallen hero of long ago. Haemar had been a great general in his day, but became infected with the disease _sanguinare vampiris, _and had become a terrible vampire lord. At first he attempted to hide his condition from all who knew him, but eventually was found out. Despite his brilliant military career, the people of his town turned on him and tracked him to the cave where a bloody battle ensued. Eventually, Haemar was killed, along with thirty or so of his own soldiers whom he had turned, and the place was abandoned and shunned ever since.

By the time they reached Ivarstead it was already mid-afternoon. Marcus had no desire to tackle climbing the mountain in the middle of the night, and he and Lydia had stayed at the Vilemyr Inn for the night, intending to get a fresh start in the morning.

But the morning brought with it a torrential downpour, which Marcus also had no intention of "schlepping through", as he put it, raising Lydia's eyebrows over the odd phrase. The proprietor, Wilhelm, advised them to stay out of the barrow on the eastern edge of town, due to its being "haunted". Pressing the man for details only served to strengthen his warning.

"I've seen one of the ghosts myself!" he shuddered. "I swear when it looked at me, it burned right through to my soul!"

Marcus glanced at Lydia, who lifted her shoulders in what could have been a shrug of disbelief, or an attempt to ease a kink in her muscles.

"What if I looked into it for you?" Marcus offered. At least it would give them something to do. He didn't believe in ghosts. It was far more likely someone was running some kind of scam, but for what purpose remained to be seen. It could be bandits, or perhaps someone running a contraband operation. In any case, since he couldn't climb High Hrothgar today he might as well check it out.

"If you think there's anything you can do, be my guest," Wilhelm said. "Fortunately, the spirits seem to be keeping to the Barrow. I think they're guarding it. Certainly isn't helping my business any, I can tell you that. Who would want to rent a room anywhere near a haunted barrow?"

"I can understand your point," Marcus commiserated. "Anything else you can tell me about the place?"

"Let me think," Wilhelm considered. "About a year or two ago, some fella named Wyndelius came through. He claimed to be some kind of treasure hunter. I warned him not to go in there, just like I warned you." Here he turned a stern eye on Marcus and Lydia. "The very next night we heard screams from the barrow, and that was it." Wilhelm's voice dropped to a hushed murmur. "We never saw him again!"

Marcus looked once more at Lydia, who had paled a bit, but kept her face expressionless.

"We'll be back," Marcus told the innkeeper. "And here's another ten gold for tonight." He pushed the coins at the man, who pocketed them quickly enough.

_Of course he would,_ Marcus thought with some amusement. If he and Lydia checked out the barrow and found it empty, they'd be back to use the room tonight, and they could put Wilhelm's fears to rest. If they didn't come back, Wilhelm was ahead by a handful of coins. If it turned out they found bandits or something else in the barrow, they'd deal with it. He'd faced down draugrs and dragons. It couldn't be worse.

* * *

><p>He really needed to keep those kinds of thoughts under lock and key, Marcus thought as he and Lydia fought their way through Shroud Hearth Barrow.<p>

The initial investigation of the upper level of the barrow determined that Wyndelius Gatharian, the "treasure hunter" Wilhelm met, had initiated an elaborate hoax on the people of Ivarstead. The journal Marcus found after he and Lydia killed the crazed madman indicated that he had been looking for one of the claw keys needed to delve deeper into the barrow. An accomplished alchemist, he had created a potion that gave him the appearance of an incorporeal spectre to frighten away the locals while he searched.

What Wyndelius never knew, however, was that the claw was never in the barrow at all. It was tucked safely under the counter at the Vilemyr Inn. When Marcus and Lydia returned a couple of hours later with the journal in hand, an embarrassed and grateful Wilhelm gifted them with the golden claw tipped with sapphire points.

Once more, Marcus shot a look at his Housecarl, who grinned at him. "Lead on, my Thane," she chirped.

Traps. Of course there were traps. Lydia remarked sourly that it wouldn't be an ancient Nordic barrow if it didn't have traps. The swinging battleaxes were the worst. Timing a jump between the rocking blades of doom were hedgy at best, deadly at worst. Lydia went down and Marcus had to dive under the blades and wriggle his way out of the corridor, dragging her with him. It took several healing potions before either of them felt ready to continue.

The final chamber was by far the worst. Skeletons and draugr emerged sporadically from the coffins. Lydia kept peppering them with arrows until they got too close, then used her sword. Taking his cue from her, Marcus did the same. But the largest draugr knew the same _fus_ Shout he did, and more than once Marcus found himself being blown against the back wall or off into the water below.

When it was finally over, he and Lydia had found another Word Wall, and one of the inscriptions glowed and streamed out toward him. _Kaan._ He didn't know what it meant, but it lingered there in his mind, waiting patiently for him to understand its meaning.

When they emerged from Shroud Hearth Barrow, Marcus was surprised to see how late it was. Night had fallen, the rain had stopped and the skies were clear. The two moons were high in the sky. He'd only seen something like it in a science fiction movie. To see it in reality – his new reality – took his breath away.

"That's Masser," Lydia said, pointing at the large red moon. "And that's his little sister Secunda over there." She gazed shrewdly at her Thane. "You look like you've never seen them before."

"I haven't," Marcus breathed. "I mean, since Helgen, yes. But not before."

"Who _are_ you, Thane?" Lydia whispered, momentarily taken aback.

"I used to know that," he answered absently. Then he seemed to shake off whatever was on his mind and said in a firm voice, "Let's get back to the Inn and get some rest. It looks like we should be able to climb the mountain tomorrow."

So here they were, now, halfway up the Throat of the World. The wolves and spiders that attacked them on the way up were merely an annoyance by now. The ice wraiths were another matter entirely, but Lydia found they succumbed quickly to the flames that shot from the staff they'd found in Shroud Hearth Barrow.

"We'll have to invest in some soul gems to keep it charged," she advised her Thane.

Marcus nodded and peered ahead. The day had started out clearly enough, but they were moving into the lower reaches of the clouds that seemed to collect around the Throat. _Too much to ask if they'd just go around, I suppose,_ Marcus thought wryly. The dampness chilled him to the bone, but Lydia didn't seem that affected by it.

"It's my Nord heritage, my Thane," she answered when he asked. "As a race, my people are hardy and resilient. The cold just doesn't seem to bother us as much as it does the other races."

This led to a tutorial on how many other races there were in Tamriel, as he learned this land was called. Skyrim, Lydia told him, was home to the Nords, which Marcus had already labeled "Vikings" in his mind. The Imperials came from Cyrodiil to the south. They were the military presence in Skyrim that was currently at war with the faction known as Stormcloaks. Marcus immediately thought of the Roman Empire, and their successful dominion over most of Europe in the pre-Christian era and the early centuries of the Common Era. Apparently, the body he was in now was an Imperial. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Redguards, the darker-skinned humans, hailed from Hammerfell, to the west and southwest of Skyrim. Bretons were natives of High Rock, far to the west. While the Redguards seemed to have an Arab-like society, the Bretons were more like the people of Great Britain. Breton. Britain. It made sense.

"Where do the Thalmor fit in there?" he asked. "And the other elves I've seen?"

"There are four distinct races of Mer, my Thane," Lydia told him. "The Altmer are from the Summerset Isles, which are far away off the coast of Hammerfell. They call themselves 'High Elves', and pretty much lord it over the others. The Thalmor are a faction within the Aldmeri Dominion, sort of an elite corps."

_So they're like the S.S. were in Nazi Germany,_ Marcus thought. _Got it._

Lydia went on to explain about the Dunmer, the gray-skinned 'Dark Elves' from Morrowind to the east, and the Bosmer who were also known as 'Wood Elves' and who hailed from Valenwood, which was situated south of Cyrodiil, to the west of Elsweyr.

"Then there's the Orcs," she said as they took a break next to the sixth Wayshrine he'd seen since they started.

"Are they from Elsweyr?" Marcus asked. His own mental image of Orcs was based on the _Lord of the Rings_ movies he and Lynne had enjoyed.

"Oh no!" Lydia shook her head. "They're from Orsinium. It's a tiny little plot of land in the mountains between High Rock and Hammerfell. It's really not much more than a walled, fortified city, but the Orcs have claimed it as their own, and the Empire hasn't done anything to stop them."

"Then who lives in Elsweyr?" her Thane asked.

"The Khajiit come from there," Lydia said. "It's part jungle, part desert, and they've adapted very well to its harsh climate."

"The Khajiit are….?" Marcus prompted.

"I'm sorry, Thane," Lydia blushed. "I'm surprised you don't know that either. They're the race of felines that inhabit Tamriel."

"Cats?" Marcus chuckled. "You mean there's an entire country set aside for kitty-cats?"

Lydia chuckled, too. "Don't let any of them hear you say that," she warned, good-naturedly. "The Khajiit are a proud, but strange race, and not everyone trusts them. Most of them in Skyrim are caravaneers, and they've been known to deal in contraband. Many of them aren't even allowed within city walls, because of their reputation as thieves and smugglers."

"Is such a reputation warranted?" Marcus asked as they got to their feet and proceeded on their way.

"Sadly, yes," Lydia nodded. "There are some who are honest, but not many. As for the caravan that comes by Whiterun, it's lead by Ri'saad, and he seems trustworthy enough. I've even bought things from him myself. He does tend to be able to supply things from across Tamriel that other merchants find hard to get."

"Hot items?" Marcus asked with a quirk of his eyebrow. At Lydia's puzzled look he amended, "Stolen goods."

"Honestly, I don't know, my Thane." She looked concerned. "I hope not, anyway!"

Besides the Khajiit, Marcus learned, there was another "beast" race of lizard-folk known as Argonians, who came from Black Marsh. Like the Khajiit, they were mistrusted, perhaps because of their strange, alien forms. Lydia told him that most of the Argonians she had heard about worked for the East Empire Shipping Company, which plied the waters around Tamriel, and had headquarters in Solitude and Windhelm. "They're dock workers, mainly," she told him, "because they can breathe underwater. But even the Argonians aren't really tolerated in the cities."

_That's not right, _he thought grimly. It was just another form of racism he'd fought against in his previous life. Not knowing what, if anything, he could do about it here left him feeling a bit frustrated. _First things first, Marcus, _he told himself. _Talk to the Greybeards, _then_ save the world._

* * *

><p>"What in the name of all that is holy is <em>that?" <em>Marcus exclaimed.

"Frost troll, Thane!" Lydia shouted back. "They hate fire!"

"Use the staff, then!" he called back. "Just don't hit me with it!"

"I promise nothing!"

The troll lumbered forward, and even from the distance of twenty feet away, Marcus could tell he did _not_ want to close with the beast. Those massive paws and spring-loaded muscles would finish him faster than you could say 'Skyrim'.

Marcus scrambled to a higher vantage point and aimed his bow. Two of the steel arrows hit, but the third missed. After being punctured and burned, the creature backed away around a bend of the mountain, and Marcus could no longer see where he was.

"Damnation!" he muttered. Leaping down he crouched and darted across the path to the other side. He saw the troll lingering under an overhang. It didn't look the least bit hurt, for all that Lydia had nearly exhausted the Flames staff on it.

"Can you hit it again, Lydia?" he called out.

"The staff is almost empty, my Thane," she shot back. "Are there any filled soul gems in your pack? We picked some up in the barrow, but I couldn't tell if they were filled."

"And you think _I _would know one if I saw it?" he demanded crossly. The troll was headed back their way, and he shot three more arrows, hitting all three times, before he had to scramble up the rocks out of its way.

"I'll kill you!" Lydia shrieked, and Marcus' stomach lurched when he saw her charge the troll.

"_What the fuck do you think you're doing?"_ he yelled at her, but she was oblivious to him, concentrating all her efforts on slaying the troll.

The creature swung at her with its huge, clawed hand, but Lydia nimbly ducked beneath it and slashed across its stomach with her sword. The tough fur and skin barely broke, and Marcus saw the slice seal up before his eyes.

"That bastard's regenerating!" he exclaimed in horror.

"It's a troll!" Lydia grunted, barely audible over the beast's roaring. "It's what they do. I could use a little help, Thane!"

Quickly realizing they needed to keep up a steady barrage of injury to overcome the troll's inherent ability to heal itself, Marcus put the bow away and unsheathed the battleaxe. Jumping off the rocky outcrop, he came up behind the troll and swung as hard as he could.

The troll jerked so hard it nearly pulled the axe out of Marcus' hands, but he grimly held on while the magic of the blade sucked away some of the abomination's strength. Flailing out with both clawed hands, it caught Lydia on the side of her head and she spun around, sinking to her knees, shaking the blood out of her eyes.

Enraged, it whirled around and slammed its shoulder into Marcus' side. Its fetid breath was bad enough, but the stabbing pain told him he'd probably cracked a rib or two. Breathing became labored.

"Not my Thane you don't!" Lydia screeched, bringing her shield up and slamming it into the troll's head. Staggering back, Lydia followed up by slicing with her shield and stabbing with her sword. The frost troll sank to its knees, blood pouring from its mouth and nose, and from the gaping wound on its chest which was already beginning to close.

"Oh, no," Marcus gritted through teeth clenched in pain. "You don't get off _that_ easy!"

With great difficulty, ignoring the screaming of his cracked ribcage, Marcus brought the battleaxe up and then down again as hard as he could. The troll's head rolled away from its body, which jerked for several minutes until it finally lay still, blood soaking into the white snow around them.

"You did it, my Thane!" Lydia cried, eyes dancing.

"_We_ did it, Lydia," he corrected her. "We did it together. I couldn't have done it without you." He winced again, taking a ragged breath and clutched his side.

They spent several minutes resting and healing up with some of the last of his precious potions. Marcus sincerely hoped there wouldn't be anything else to hinder them reaching High Hrothgar before the sun set. It was already late in the day.

As it turned out, nothing else bothered them as they made their way up the last of the Seven Thousand Steps, passing by a few more of the Wayshrines on the path. Marcus dutifully stopped at each one to read the inscription, and learned the story of the First Tongues, the Dragon War and the founder of the monastery, Jurgen Windcaller. A strange sense of peace filled him after reading the last one, and his mind felt more at rest than it had since he'd woken up in the cart on the way to Helgen.

When they finally mounted the last flight of steps leading to High Hrothgar, Marcus stopped to drop off a pack full of supplies given to him by a man in Ivarstead named Klimmek. The poor fellow wasn't looking forward to climbing the mountain to make the delivery, but didn't want to disappoint the Greybeards. Marcus had offered to take it up for him.

The huge iron doors on either side of the front façade were shut, and Marcus didn't see any kind of doorbell or knocker to alert anyone within. He put his hand on the handle to test and see if it was locked, but the door swung open easily, though he'd barely touched it.

_I guess they must be expecting me,_ he grinned to himself as he entered, Lydia close behind.

Four men with long gray beards – ironic indeed, Marcus thought – approached him.

"Welcome to High Hrothgar," the one with the knotted beard greeted him. Marcus noted immediately that the old man seemed to ignore Lydia completely, who was standing right behind him. "I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Who are you, and why have you come here?"

Marcus squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "My name is Marcus," he announced. "I'm answering your summons."

"We will see if what you say is true," the old man replied blandly. "Let us taste of your Voice, and we will see if you are truly the one whom we have called."

Taste of his Voice? Just the way Arngeir said it made it sound capitalized. Did he really want Marcus to Shout at him? He'd seen what it could do to draugr and bandits, and this was just a frail old man. He didn't want to hurt him.

"I sense your hesitation, traveler," Arngeir said. "Do not be concerned for us. We have studied the Way of the Voice since long before you were born, and we are prepared to accept your Thu'um. Speak now."

In point of fact, he really only knew the one word. Shrugging, he summoned everything within him and Shouted.

"_FUS!"_

To their credit, while Arngeir and the Greybeard behind him staggered slightly, they didn't fall to their knees as the draugr had. The pots behind them, however, went flying.

Recovering quickly, Arngeir looked more impressed than he had moments before.

"Dragonborn," he said respectfully. "It _is_ you!"

Marcus felt his 'inner dragon', as he had taken to calling it, revel in smugness. _Be nice,_ he told it.

"Who are you?" Marcus asked, as politely as he could, still squelching the dragon inside. "What is this place?"

"We are the Greybeards," Arngeir replied, eyebrows raised as if it was self-evident. "We are followers of the Way of the Voice."

The Way of the Voice. He'd read about that on the tablets at the shrines on the way up.

"You stand in High Hrothgar, on the sloped of Kynareth's sacred mountain," Arngeir continued. "Here we commune with the voice of the sky, and strive to achieve balance between our inner and outer selves."

Much like the Buddhist monks of his old world, Marcus thought privately.

"Tell me again, Dragonborn, why are you here?"

_Because you summoned me like a puppy,_ Marcus thought sourly, but felt that might not sound very gracious. Instead he replied, "I want to find out what it means to be Dragonborn." Tamsyn had hinted – rather broadly – about what he had to do, but there hadn't been time for her to tell him what was expected of him.

Arngeir seemed satisfied with that answer. "We are here to guide you in that pursuit, Dragonborn," he beamed, "just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you."

Wait. There were others like him here in Skyrim? Perhaps even others who had come from his old world? Maybe he might find a way to return after all!

_Not too likely,_ his inner dragon reproached him. _You died, remember?_

Silently telling his dragon to stuff it, he asked Master Arngeir hopefully, "You mean I'm not the only Dragonborn?"

"You are not the first," Arngeir admitted. "There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind. Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age….well, that is not ours to know. You are the only one that has been revealed to us thus far. That is all we can say."

Marcus felt his hopes dashed against the rocks of reality again. Breathing out a sigh of resignation, he bowed slightly from the waist and replied, "I am answering your summons, Master."

The words seemed formal, even to his ears, but they also seemed right. Arngeir and the other Greybeards smiled their approval, even as the old man responded, "We are honored to welcome a Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny."

"What _is_ my destiny?" Marcus asked, though the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he already knew. Tamsyn had revealed that much to him.

But Arngeir shrugged. "That is for you to discover, Dragonborn. We can show you the Way, but not your destination."

Marcus thought about everything he had learned so far. It seemed a pitiful small amount of knowledge to pit against defeating the lord of all the dragons. Anything he could learn here would help him find a way to do that. With another inward sigh of acceptance, Marcus bowed once more and said, "I'm ready to learn."

In the end, due to the lateness of the hour, Master Arngeir told his new pupil that the lessons would be put off until the following day. He led Marcus to a stone bed in what appeared to be a dormitory-type wing of the monastery, but looked confused about what to do with Lydia.

"I'll sleep on the floor," she said. "I'm getting used to it."

"We really have no place here for followers," Arngeir said, without a shred of apology. "The path of the Dragonborn is often a solitary one."

"I won't leave him unless he tells me to go," Lydia said firmly. "He is my Thane, and I will protect him with my life, if necessary."

"That is commendable," Arngeir said, with just the faintest trace of exasperation in his voice, "but entirely unnecessary, I assure you, young lady. The Dragonborn is in no danger here in our monastery."

Lydia set her chin in what Marcus was fast recognizing as her most stubborn look.

"Maybe it would be best if you return to Ivarstead and wait for me there," he suggested. "It will be far more comfortable for you at the Vilemyr." He had no idea how long he would need to train here, but surely, with the septims they'd picked up in Shroud Hearth Barrow, they could afford for Lydia to wait for him there for at least a couple of weeks, if not longer.

Lydia looked as though she wanted to argue the point, but duty to her Thane won out over her personal feelings and she nodded shortly. "As you wish, my Thane," she said grudgingly. "I will wait for you at the Vilemyr."

"But—" Marcus forestalled her as she turned to leave, shooting a hard stare at Master Arngeir, "not until morning. I'm not having you fall off the mountain in the middle of the night."

Arngeir bowed graciously. "If the young lady does not mind sleeping in a bedroll for one night, we will be happy to provide food and shelter for her."

That night Marcus' dreams were conflicted. He saw Tamsyn being roasted alive by the huge black dragon while his feet were encased in stone. Then the dream morphed, and it was Lucia who was being eaten by a frost troll while Lydia pulled him away. Finally, another dragon entered his dream; a large, gray dragon who breathed fire at him that did not burn, who spoke to him and asked him, "What do you seek, Dovahkiin?"

The question still echoed in his mind when he awoke. He said nothing of his dreams to the others, but broke his fast with the Greybeards and his Housecarl before giving Lydia a pouch of coin to see to her comfort at the Inn while she waited for him.

"I don't know how long this will take," he said by way of apology. "If I don't come back in a couple of weeks, return to Dragonsreach. I'll look for you there."

Lydia's mouth was set in an unhappy frown, but she nodded and said only, "As you wish, my Thane," before departing.

Then the training began.

* * *

><p>One of the first things Marcus learned was that only Master Arngeir spoke to him. The other three, Masters Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth, had voices much too powerful for ordinary, everyday conversation, Master Arngeir told him. Indeed, even their softly muttered, "Dovahkiin", when greeting him was enough to rattle the crockery and make the ground rumble.<p>

That didn't mean they didn't have other ways to communicate. Between the four of them, there seemed to be some sort of telepathy going. That was the only explanation Marcus could think of when one of them would look at another, and that one would go off and do something as if fulfilling a request. There seemed to be a sort of close relationship between the four old men, rather like brothers who had known each other all their lives, though it would be impossible to say how old they truly were, or if they were indeed related at all. What was clear was that they managed, without words, to communicate their needs to each other. Marcus noticed a curious form of hand gestures they used between them, which Master Arngeir admitted they sometimes used for more "commonplace" conversation, but he would never confirm any kind of mental connection. He didn't deny it either, however.

The Greybeards taught him a second word which paired with the first one he'd already learned. When he combined _ro, _which meant 'balance', with _fus_, which meant 'force', the Shout became much more powerful. He practiced pinpoint hitting an illusion the Greybeards summoned with his Unrelenting Force Shout, as they called it. He also set up large pots in the courtyard and practiced running, leaping from cover, tumbling and weaving between other obstacles as he picked off the pots with his Shout.

Master Einarth gave him a large wooden sword and together they practice-fought in the courtyard for hours each day. Marcus learned to withstand the Unrelenting Force as much as he gave it.

"I didn't think you guys knew how to fight," he admitted, after Master Einarth had sent him sprawling with a resounding crack to the skull and a _fus ro dah._

The old man's hand fluttered in a series of gestures to which Marcus was quickly picking up the meaning.

"No, Master, I didn't mean to criticize," he bowed and apologized. "It just surprised me, that's all."

_We were all of us warriors before we became Greybeards,_ Master Einarth said with his hands. _But we left the Way of the Sword to pursue the Way of the Voice. We do not regret this._

Master Arngeir was astonished at how quickly he learned the new Shout. "You learn quickly, Dragonborn," he acknowledged. "For many who come here, learning the Thu'um is difficult, and takes many years of practice to master even a single word. But your Dragon Blood makes it easier for you to comprehend the subtle complexities of each part of the Shout."

"Others have come here?" Marcus asked. "Did Ulfric Stormcloak come here?"

Arngeir frowned. "The Jarl of Windhelm _did_ study here, when he was a young man," the Master admitted. "But he was always impatient, wanting immediate results." The old man sighed. "He was such a promising student. I had hoped he might prove to be the Dragonborn, but he never understood the Way of the Voice, never accepted that the Thu'um was intended to honor the gods, not be used as a weapon against his enemies."

Marcus was stricken. Wasn't that was he was trying to do?

"But, Master Arngeir," he began slowly. "I've used the Thu'um against my enemies…"

"Only in defense of your own life, Dragonborn, or in defense of others," Arngeir assured him. "Ulfric…changed, somehow."

"What do you mean?"

"We taught him Unrelenting Force, as we are teaching you now. But we also taught him _zun haal viik, _which is a Shout that can rip your enemy's weapon from his hand." Arngeir's shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked much older. "We have heard the stories, of course. Ulfric has used his mastery of his Shouts to give him the advantage in battle. He sought out opponents to defeat, to crush beneath his feet. He seeks the Jagged Crown, to justify his misuse of the Thu'um and legitimize his claim to the throne of Skyrim. Oh yes, we have heard how he struck down the High King with his Shout. Even here, we have heard of it."

"I thought the Greybeards didn't involve themselves in politics," Marcus commented.

Arngeir looked at him steadily. "We do not," he said firmly. "But politics has a habit of wanting to involve itself with us, and if we do not stay informed, we could easily be led astray from the path of true enlightenment."

It was a fair answer, Marcus had to admit. Still, the more he learned of Ulfric Stormcloak, the less he liked the man. Those who exploited the power given them to further their own agenda were the most dangerous, he knew. He would have to be careful in his dealings with any Stormcloaks he met. The last thing he wanted was to call Ulfric's attention to him.

When Arngeir was satisfied that Marcus had a firm grasp on Unrelenting Force, the Greybeards led him into the courtyard one sunny afternoon to teach him a new word, _wuld_. Arngeir told him it meant 'whirlwind'. Using the Thu'um lent speed to his limbs, and Marcus soon found he could sprint much faster than before, if only for a short time.

_Whirlwind Sprint allows you to get away quickly, if need be, _Master Borri signed to him, as Marcus practiced the Shout. But after tripping over his own feet for the umpteenth time, Marcus wasn't sure he wouldn't end up dragon-bait after all.

_You anticipate it before you do it,_ Borri smiled as he gestured. _It puts you off balance. Don't expect it. Just do it._

Marcus nodded and took a deep breath, closing his eyes to relax his mind. "_WULD!"_ he Shouted upon opening them, and allowed his body to carry itself forward. This time he didn't end up in a snowdrift.

Grinning, he walked back to Master Borri and sat down next to the youngest of the Greybeards, and it had taken him some time to figure that out, since they all looked the same age to him.

"Thank you, Master Borri," Marcus acknowledged. "That was the problem, I think."

Borri nodded and gestured. _You have come far, Dragonborn. Already you have learned what it has taken all of us years to master. If it makes you feel any better, Whirlwind Sprint was always difficult for me, before I realized what I was doing wrong._

Marcus smiled. It was amazing how quickly he was picking up the sign language they used. Most of it was inferred, of course, but with just a few movements of their hands, they were able to express quite voluble thoughts.

"Master Einarth told me you were all warriors once," Marcus hesitated.

_Master Einarth is correct. It was a long time ago, but I was once one of the best warriors in Jarl Hrolfdir's army._

"Who was Jarl Hrolfdir?" Marcus asked.

_He was the Jarl of the Reach, long ago. His son, Igmund, is Jarl now._

"Why did you leave, if you don't mind my asking?"

Borri sighed and looked out across the snowy courtyard, toward the Wind Gate. He seemed to grow sadder.

_My wife and children died in a Forsworn attack._

"I'm so sorry," Marcus murmured. "So you came here to try and make sense of it all?"

Borri nodded. _I found a peace here I haven't felt anywhere else, so I stayed._

"It must get boring, though, doesn't it sometimes?" the younger man asked. "What do you do for fun up here?"

_Watch and learn._ Borri nodded towards the Wind Gate. Master Wulfgar was returning to the monastery after meditating at the shrine there. Just as he reached the middle of the courtyard, Marcus heard Master Borri draw breath.

"_FUS!"_

Master Wulfgar went sprawling, face-planting into a nearby snowbank. He got up quickly, however, spluttering and red-faced, glaring angrily around to see who was responsible for such an undignified assault on his person.

He saw Borri sitting on the eastern steps, shoulders shaking in repressed mirth, while a very shocked-looking Dovahkiin sat next to him. Eyes narrowed, it looked for a moment as if Wulfgar would retaliate, but apparently he had decided to take the high road. Chin set resolutely, he sniffed as if they weren't worth bothering about and practically nanced his way back into the monastery.

"You play _practical jokes?"_ Marcus gaped, unsure whether to be amused or appalled. Amusement won out, however, as a grin split his face.

_It helps pass the time,_ Master Borri shrugged, eyes twinkling merrily.

In all, Marcus spent nearly three weeks training with the Greybeards, honing his Thu'um until Master Arngeir was satisfied he was ready for his final trial.

"You must retrieve the Horn of our founder, Jurgen Windcaller, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav," he instructed Marcus. "Stay focused, keep true to the Way of the Voice, and you will prevail."

It didn't seem like too much to ask for all he had been given. Master Wulfgar had implied there were other Words of Power scattered across Skyrim, and that many of them were buried on Word Walls within the ancient tombs. When he asked about the word he'd already learned, _kaan_, he was informed it was a part of a Shout known as Kyne's Peace, which would calm animals and keep them from attacking him.

"Why can't I use it?" he asked. "I've tried Shouting it, but nothing happens."

_Look around, _Wulfgar signed. _High Hrothgar isn't exactly teeming with wildlife. And you must unlock its meaning with the soul of a slain dragon. If you do not have one, you will not be able to use the Shout until you do._

"What if I learn several words before I get another dragon soul?" Marcus queried.

Wulfgar patted him on the shoulder. _You will always have the choice, Dovahkiin, of which meaning you wish to unlock first._

That seemed fair enough. He'd seen Master Wulfgar practice with a Shout that shot out a flume of fire from his mouth, which left him untouched.

_No wonder they don't speak aloud,_ Marcus chuckled to himself. _That has to be rough on the old vocal chords._ Still, if he had a choice of learning a Fire Breath Shout before Kyne's Peace, that would be fine by him.

The day before he left High Hrothgar to return to the world below, Marcus happened to eavesdrop – completely unintentionally at first – on a rather heated conversation between the Greybeards. From his vantage point in an alcove, where he was ready _Brief History of the Empire, v.1, _Marcus could see Master Arngeir clearly, but the two standing before him had their backs to Marcus, and he could not see them signing anything, if indeed they were signing at all. The Greybeards only seemed to do that for his benefit; among themselves, they seemed not to need it.

"You did _what?"_ Master Arngeir demanded incredulously, glaring at one of them.

Silence for several moments.

"Stop talking at the same time, both of you!" Arngeir scolded. "I can only hear one of you at a time. Master Borri did _what_ to you, Master Wulfgar?"

More silence.

"And so you decided Slow Time in the privy would be an adequate punishment for a face full of snow?" Arngeir shook his head. "Just how old are you two? Honestly, it's like living with a bunch of teen-agers, and I can assure you I'm too old to do _that_ again!"

Again, more silence.

"Don't give me that 'he started it' nonsense!" Arngeir snapped. "Now both of you, go off and do your meditations – at separate ends of the monastery, if you please! We'll have no more such talk. And no more practical jokes! That means _you_, Borri!"

Marcus shrank back into the shadows until the Greybeards had gone.

_No one,_ he promised himself, _no one is ever going to hear about this from me. _They'd never believe him.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: I had originally finished this chapter completely differently, but unfortunately the file was on a jump drive that suddenly, unexpectedly decided not to work anymore. I had to recreate this, and I think I like it better this way. Who knew the Greybeards had a sense of humor? Especially that Borri!]<em>


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_[Author's Note: Sometimes what we think we want turns out to be unattainable. And if we're lucky, that's alright. And other times, doing what is right is more important than doing what you intended.]_

* * *

><p>Lydia was getting concerned. Thane Marcus had told her to wait at the Vilemyr Inn for a fortnight, then return to Whiterun and wait at Dragonsreach for him. And she would have done that, except some very suspicious-looking characters had turned up in Ivarstead, poking around and asking far too many questions about High Hrothgar, the Greybeards, and whether anyone had met this 'Dragonborn' who had been summoned.<p>

They were Dunmer, she thought, by the gray skin exposed between cuirass and gauntlets, and by their foreign accents, but she'd never seen armor like theirs before. It appeared to be made of bone and resin, and the full-coverage helmets they wore resembled some strange, tentacled creature she had only heard of in sailor's stories.

She didn't like the fact they appeared to be waiting for her Thane. They kept to themselves, when they weren't asking the townsfolk probing questions, and eschewed the Inn in favor of camping out just outside town.

No. She didn't like this at all. So Lydia disobeyed her Thane and stayed put.

_Going against orders yet again, are we, Lydders?_ she mocked herself. It was a character flaw she knew she needed to work on. Even Jarl Balgruuf was unsure whether she had what it took to be a Housecarl. But she had begged Commander Caius to nominate her for the position. It had all been very rushed, due to the fact that the Greybeards had summoned a Dragonborn for the first time in centuries, and no one yet knew which of the men and women sent to the Western Watchtower with Irileth was actually the hero of legend.

They had all seen the tall, dark-haired Imperial come in to Dragonsreach a few days before. The story of how he'd put the snooty court mage, Farengar, in his place by producing the Dragonstone before Farengar could ask him to get it lost nothing in the retelling. Many of her fellow guardsmen and women were placing wagers on who the Dragonborn would turn out to be. Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, laughingly suggested it might even be Irileth herself.

_Please don't let it be her, please don't let it be her!_ Lydia had prayed to the Nine in secret. Being a guard under the occasional command of the harsh Dark Elf was bad enough. Being Housecarl to her as Dragonborn would have been unbearable.

When the dark-haired Imperial stranger returned shortly after word reached them that the dragon had been slain, after they had all heard the Greybeards' summons, Lydia fairly danced with excitement. She wasn't sure how the red-haired Breton girl fit into the picture; it didn't seem like they were pledged to each other, but one could never be sure. When her new Thane advanced to the Jarl's throne to be recognized for his efforts, the girl had hung back, assured Lydia that they were not "in a relationship", and had quickly departed after giving her that pleading look not to tell Thane Marcus where she'd gone.

Lydia sighed. They hadn't told her when she got promoted that things would suddenly get much more complicated – to say nothing about dangerous!

Her hackles having been well raised by the appearance of these mysterious strangers, Lydia continued to stay in Ivarstead past the point where she'd been ordered to leave. She made herself useful to the villagers by chopping wood, working at the mill, helping Klimmek with his fishing and killing bears for Temba Wide-Arms, all the while keeping one watchful eye on the path down from High Hrothgar and the other on the strangely-dressed Dunmer.

Finally, nearly a week after he expected to return, Lydia saw her Thane coming down the path and across the bridge into Ivarstead. Unfortunately, before she could reach him, the strangers were there first.

"You're the one they call 'Dragonborn', are you?" one of them, the female, demanded.

Her Thane appeared startled at being so abruptly accosted, though they never laid a hand on him…yet.

"The Greybeards seem to think so," he prevaricated, unsure where this was leading.

"Then it is too late," the woman sneered. "The lie has already taken roots in the hearts of men. So we shall show them the falseness of their hearts by tearing out yours, Deceiver! When Lord Miraak returns, all shall bow down before him!"

Without warning, the woman gestured and summoned a being of pure fire behind him; a being that suddenly started lobbing fireballs at him like Kerry Wood pitching strike-outs.

He tumbled to one side, getting quickly to his feet. The two strangers were still standing closely together, and Marcus let loose with a _"Fus Ro!"_ of his own before drawing his sword. They staggered, which gave him enough time to look around and see where everyone was. He didn't want this to involve any of the residents of Ivarstead, if it could be avoided.

Several guards were headed their way, however, weapons drawn, and Marcus felt reassured at the back-up.

"I'm right behind you, Thane!" Lydia called. "_Yeowtch!_ That hurt!" The flame creature had caught the Nord woman full in the face with her fire blast. Lydia's hair looked singed, but not too badly.

"Why aren't you in Whiterun?" he demanded as she turned back-to-back with him to block an attack from the male member of the duo with her shield.

"Aren't you glad I stayed?" she shot back. "And can we discuss this later, my Thane?"

Marcus swung the axe around at the fire creature, which had glided in from his right side. The axe cleaved the creature in two, and it crumpled to the ground. Lydia's eyes widened in horror as she pulled her Thane back.

"Marcus, watch out!" she cried. "Those things—"

_FWOOMM!_

The detonation was thunderous as a conflagration engulfed a ten-foot diameter area of ground, catching the male stranger in its blast. With a groan, the man fell to the ground, breathing his last.

"—explode," Lydia finished.

_WHUMP!_

Lydia suddenly cried out in anguish as she was impaled by a very large spear of ice through her midsection.

Twenty yards away, the female stranger was still desperately fighting a rear-guard action, defending herself against the guards of the Rift, while still trying to take out the Dragonborn. Marcus brought his bow out and swiftly nocked an arrow. Taking careful aim, he let fly, and the steel-tipped arrow pierced the woman right between the eyes.

Lydia was still doubled over, groaning, and Marcus quickly pulled out a healing potion.

"Do I pull it out first?" he asked, distractedly. He'd seen Irileth shooting at Mir Mul Nir with these things, but he didn't really understand how it worked, or how to remedy it.

"No, my Thane," Lydia gasped. "Give me the potion. It will wear off."

"Oh, so we're back to 'Thane', is it?" he teased, relieved she would be alright.

Lydia blushed, and he wondered for the first time just how old she was. He hadn't thought about it before.

The guards came rushing up to be certain they were alright. "We would have done something about them before now, Dragonborn," one of them said, "but they kept to themselves and didn't cause trouble, so we had no cause to interfere."

"It's okay," Marcus said, helping Lydia to her feet. "Any idea where they came from?"

"None at all," the man replied. "Maybe they've got something on them. We'll take care of the bodies. You can be on your way, if you like."

Marcus ended up taking the armor, masks and some potions the two strangers had on them. He also found a note in a strange hand.

_ "Board the vessel _Northern Maiden _docked at Raven Rock. Take it to Windhelm, then begin your search. Kill the False Dragonborn known as Marcus before he reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased."_

"Miraak?" Lydia asked. "Who's that, my Thane?"

"I have no idea," Marcus muttered. "Someone I must have pissed off in a previous life."

"Solstheim is a long way from here," Lydia mused. "It used to be a part of Skyrim a couple of centuries ago, but when the Red Mountain erupted in Morrowind, there was a large migration here of refugees. The High King of Skyrim at the time gave Solstheim to Morrowind, and most of the refugees went there. I've heard it's not a very hospitable place, though. The Red Mountain has been spewing out ash ever since it erupted, and the entire southern part of Solstheim is covered with it."

Marcus stared at Lydia for a long moment before speaking. "How do you even _know_ all that stuff?" he asked in wonder. He was lucky if he could still remember details from his American History class in high school, and that only covered two hundred years.

"Part of our training as Housecarls is the history of Skyrim and Tamriel," she said simply. "We're not just warriors without a thought in our head other than fighting." This last was said with a little bit of asperity, and Marcus grinned.

"I'm sorry if I made any erroneous assumptions," he said with all sincerity, though he couldn't stop grinning. It was the relief at knowing she was going to be alright that made him smile. As much as he would like to deny it, he was getting used to having someone watch his back.

"Where to now, my Thane?" Lydia asked as they returned to the Vilemyr. "Did you want to go to Windhelm to find out where these assassins came from?"

Reluctantly, Marcus shook his head. "I can't. Not yet, anyway. I promised the Greybeards I'd recover something for them at a place called Ustengrav, but I don't even know where that is."

"Ustengrav….Ustengrav…" Lydia mused. "It sounds familiar, but I can't remember where it is. Farengar would know, though. He has a map of Skyrim in his study."

"I thought you knew all about the history of Skyrim," Marcus teased.

"History, yes," Lydia huffed. "Geography, not so much." Then she saw his eyes dance and gave an exasperated sigh. "Whiterun, then?"

"Yeah," Marcus agreed, still grinning. He was enjoying teasing her. He used to tease Lynne all the time, just to watch her reaction. Thinking of his wife chased the smile away from his face, and he hurriedly packed up his backpack and went out to settle up with Wilhelm.

Lydia stared after him wondering what had caused the sudden change of mood. One moment her Thane was laughing and teasing, the next he looked as though he'd lost his best friend. She would never know how right she was.

* * *

><p>They made good time back heading back. They reached Riverwood just as the sun began to sink behind the peaks to the west, and Marcus decided they could stay at the Sleeping Giant tonight rather than press on. He made the arrangements with Orgnar for two rooms and supper for both of them.<p>

"Where's Delphine?" he asked. "Doesn't she generally run things here?"

"Normally," Orgnar replied. "She said she had some things to do up north. Didn't say what, and I didn't ask. She keeps to herself. You want a drink?"

"Just mead, thanks," Marcus said. "One of these days when I get a place of my own, I may invest in some of that Colovian Brandy you had. That was good stuff."

Orgnar smiled. "Yeah, it was. Haven't had any since that night—" The barkeeper suddenly closed his mouth as if remembering why they'd been drinking the brandy, and what had followed after.

"I'll bring the food right out," he said shortly, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Sven was still pretending to be a bard at the far end of the room, but he shot a look of pure loathing at Marcus before changing instruments and beating out a rhythm on his drum. From the intense glares Marcus kept intercepting, he had the distinct feeling Sven would rather be beating on his face.

"Why is that bard staring at you so angrily?" Lydia asked.

"Guilt by association, I think," Marcus chuckled.

"I don't understand."

"It goes back to when Tamsyn and I were here, before coming to Whiterun," Marcus explained in a low voice. "You see, Sven over there was smitten by the fair Camilla Valerius, sister to Lucan, who owns the general store here. Tamsyn met Faendal, a wood elf who works at the mill – where Sven _should_ be during the day – who was also in love with Camilla. As I understand it, Faendal and Tamsyn arranged to bump Sven out of favor. Since I traveled with Tamsyn, Sven thinks I was in on it, but I didn't know anything about it until afterwards."

"Why not tell him then?" Lydia asked, her opinion of the Breton girl sinking a bit over the perfidy.

"Because I really don't care what he thinks of me," Marcus shrugged, tucking into the venison steak Orgnar delivered.

Lydia shook her head, looking as though she wanted to argue that point. "You're the Dragonborn, my Thane," she said finally. "You _should_ care what people think of you." She concentrated on her food after that, and didn't see the look that crossed her Thane's face.

_Damn her,_ Marcus thought. _Why'd she have to go and say something like that?_ It was just the sort of gentle reprimand that Lynne would have given him when he got out of line.

After several minutes of trying to enjoy a truly wonderful steak that tasted like sawdust in his mouth, Marcus got up and crossed the room over to Sven. Lydia's eyes widened. She couldn't hear what was being said, but clearly an apology was being issued, and finally, accepted.

And then her Thane did something she never dreamed he _could_ do. He picked up Sven's lute and taught the bard a song no one in that world had ever heard before.

"_Are you going to Ivarstead Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Remember me to one who lives there._

_She once was a true love of mine._

"_Tell her to make me a cambric shirt:_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Without no seam nor fine needle work,_

_Then she'll be a true love of mine._

"_Tell her to find me an acre of land:_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Between the salt water, and the sea strand,_

_Then she'll be a true love of mine._

"_Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather,_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme;_

_And gather it all in a bunch of heather,_

_Then she'll be a true love of mine."_

Her Thane sang in a deep, rich, baritone that warmed Lydia through and through. Though he played the lute awkwardly at first, his confidence grew as the song went on. When he finished, the patrons all applauded and cheered.

"That is such a romantic song!" Sigrid sighed, leaning against Alvor. Her husband put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

Sven, who had been furiously writing notes the entire time, now spoke quickly and quietly to Marcus, fingering the lute himself as he learned the song. Eventually, Marcus nodded and returned to his now-cold steak, which he tucked into with relish, his appetite restored.

"I've never heard that song before, my Thane," Lydia breathed. "And I'm delighted at how well you sing! Where did you learn to play the lute? Have you been to the Bards' College in Solitude?"

"Slow down, Lydia!" he laughed. "One question at a time! You've never heard the song before because it's a song from where I used to live, in another time and place. I had to change the opening lyrics slightly, because no one here would know where Scarborough Fair was. I learned to play an instrument similar to the lute when I was…much younger, which was why I stumbled a bit when I first started the song. And no, I've never been to the Bard's College. Helgen was my introduction to Skyrim."

"It was a beautiful song, beautifully performed," Lydia smiled.

"It was half a song, done adequately well," Marcus said, self-effacingly. "Sven has agreed to do it again later this evening. There's a counterpoint set of lyrics that I couldn't do at the same time because they overlap. It needs two voices. Sven will sing what you just heard me perform later, and I agreed to sing the Canticle counterpoint with him."

Lydia's eyes shone in anticipation. She dropped them to her plate, however, and said in a low voice, "Forgive me for criticizing you, my Thane. That was not my place."

Marcus blew out a sigh. "No, you were right, Lydia. I shouldn't be so dismissive of people I take a dislike to. I was wrong about Sven, too. He's actually a nice guy, when you get to know him."

Lydia reached out her hand and placed it on Marcus' gauntleted one. "Thank you for making peace with him, Thane," she said quietly. "It would grieve me to have people think badly of you."

Marcus said nothing, but his thoughts were whirling around in his head, far too chaotic to make sense of at the moment. That Lydia seemed attracted to him was obvious from the get-go. That she was also trying very hard to deny that attraction and keep things between them on a much more formal basis was also very obvious. It was also very clear to him she was failing on that front abysmally.

He didn't need an emotional entanglement right now, but was unsure what to do. He didn't want to offend her or reject her out of hand. He actually liked Lydia very much; and since they were bound together as Thane and Housecarl, it meant they were going to be spending an awful lot of time together.

It was probably his fault, he decided. He'd come from a world where the class system didn't exist. Lydia had made it clear she wasn't an employee; she was more of a…a subordinate, he thought. And like any bad boss, he'd made the mistake of trying to be too friendly to his subordinate.

_Too late to call that card back,_ he thought sourly. Oh well, hopefully as time went on and he kept things on a neutral basis, the attraction would wane and they could get down to the business of just being friends. At least, he hoped so.

* * *

><p>Lydia lay on her bunk in the room next to where her Thane lay sleeping. At least, she thought he was asleep. He'd bid her goodnight and closed his door, and didn't accept her offer to help him get out of his armor.<p>

"You sleep in yours all the time," he'd said. "I suppose I'd better start doing the same if I want to get used to this thing." He'd thunked the front of the breastplate, gave her a slight smile and said good-night.

Something had changed in the middle of the evening, she felt, but she couldn't pin-point exactly what it was. All through the rest of their meal, he'd kept his eyes on his plate and answered her questions politely, but noncommittally. Had she offended him? She didn't think she had, and he admitted she'd been right to say what she had about Sven.

_You embarrassed him, Lyds, _she told herself. _That _had to be it. She might as well have called him up in front of the troops and pointed out his failings. She'd always hated when Commander Caius had done that to her, even if she deserved it. She could hear the other guards sniggering behind her back, glad it wasn't them standing up there for all to see. The mortification she felt, the overwhelming hope that the ground would open up and swallow her, were feelings she wouldn't wish on anyone. Yet she had just done that very thing to her own Thane. She should be dismissed for speaking so far out of line.

Except he wouldn't do it. She knew that. Somehow, in spite of her own shortcomings, her Thane would not send her away, because he simply didn't realize he had the power to do it. Another person might have taken advantage of such an oversight. Another Housecarl might seek to ingratiate themselves so far into their Thane's life that their superior would not be able to imagine a life without their dutiful Housecarl by their side.

Lydia wasn't like that. Fiery-tempered she might be, as Commander Caius often pointed out, too willing to bend the rules, as Jarl Balgruuf often suspected, she was nevertheless loyal to a fault and a fierce defender of her charge, whoever that might be.

_Well, there was that one time with Nelkir—_

Quickly, Lydia squashed that memory and got into bed, still fully dressed in her armor. Nelkir didn't count, even if he _was_ the Jarl's son. The little brat was about as unpleasant as a slaughterfish, and just about as trustworthy. He refused to come down from the rafters that crossed the great hall. He was just lucky Hrongar was standing right under him when he fell, or—

Lydia pushed the thought away. The boy survived with a broken wrist and a couple of cracked ribs which the healers put right immediately. Too quickly for the lesson to sink in that he should have listened to his elders when Lydia told him to "get down from there."

In spite of the turmoil in her thoughts, the evening had been one of the more pleasant ones she could remember. Learning that her Thane was gifted musically had been a delight. She herself could not carry a tune in a bucket. The entire crowd – which had grown as the evening went on – delighted in hearing the new song her Thane had taught to Sven; and appreciated it even more when Sven performed the song later without a misstep, and her Thane had joined in to sing the counterpoint. It was beautiful, and several rounds of drinks were purchased for the two performers.

Tomorrow they would return to Whiterun; Thane Marcus had mentioned staying in Riverwood long enough to sell off the weapons and armor they'd picked up from the Barrow and the assassins before heading out. She wondered if he remembered wanting to check out White River Watch along the way. She had no idea how much coin was needed to purchase Breezehome, much less how much they still had. Her Thane held the coin purse, and some of it had been spent to pay for her lodgings while he studied up at High Hrothgar.

_Oh, this is silly, Lydders,_ she scolded herself. _Just remind him about it. If he wants to go there, he'll go. Why are you making such a big deal about this? You never used to be this indecisive._

She'd never been a Housecarl before, either. And she'd never been a Housecarl to a very attractive man with whom she was desperately trying not to fall in love.

She finally drifted off, restless and wakeful, and the dreams she had were not the kind she would ever relate to anyone. Not even herself.

They limped into Whiterun late in the afternoon. White River Watch was a challenge, but nothing the two of them couldn't handle, though Marcus did sprain his ankle leaping after the bandit chief, Hajvarr, before he could plummet over the side of the cliff, thanks to Lydia's pinpoint accuracy with a bow.

"You could have let him fall, Thane," she reproved gently, supporting him on one side. "He was already dead."

"I knew that," he grimaced. He'd have taken another healing potion for the pain except he'd run out. He'd settled for binding it with some leather strips he'd picked up, but it still hurt like bloody blue blazes. "I just didn't want any more dents in that boss-looking armor of his."

Lydia grinned. "That's Nordic carved armor," she informed him. "And it's better than the steel you have. It takes quicksilver ingots to repair and improve it, though, not steel."

"I take it that's a bit more expensive, then," Marcus sighed.

"A bit," Lydia agreed, "but you've collected quite a lot of coins in the past few days. You can afford to buy a few ingots, if Adrianne has them available."

"Still not enough to buy Breezehome, though," Marcus winced as the ankle twisted again. He really needed to see a healer. Lydia had confirmed when he'd gotten injured that there was one at the Temple of Kynareth in the Wind District, across from Jorrvaskr, and that reminded him that he still hadn't gone to see if they would let him join.

"Very close, though, my Thane," Lydia encouraged him. "Of course, you'll need a bit more to get it properly furnished.

Marcus nodded. He'd planned on that as well, and knew he didn't have enough right now. Perhaps there were some bounty jobs he could do, though he'd have to have this ankle seen to first. And he couldn't forget he'd promised to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. With a heavy sigh that ended in another grimace, he wondered when his life had become so complicated.

_When you woke up in that cart,_ his inner dragon chuckled. He was getting a little tired of that smug voice of brutal honesty.

Hours later, his ankle feeling much better and much of the excess loot sold off, Marcus left Lydia at Dragonsreach while he headed down to Warmaiden's to work on the new Nordic armor he'd picked up. The boots fit like they were made for him, as did the gauntlets, but the helm was a bit snug and the cuirass itself needed some major repairs. He wasn't sure he'd be able to do it himself. Adrianne, however, was delighted to see him again and quickly showed him how to make repairs and adjustments using the quicksilver ingots he purchased from her.

"Not bad," she approved, when he was finally finished. "You've got some raw talent. You're not ready to create something new out of this material, but if you keep working at it, you'll make a fine smith someday."

Privately, Marcus didn't think a career in smithing was what the Powers That Be had laid out for him, but it was nice to know he'd at least gotten this much right. The new armor fit better than the steel, though it was heavier, and though he didn't have a mirror, he thought he looked pretty bad-ass in it. Several of the women he passed in the street must have thought so as well, since their heads were turning and he heard appreciative sighs behind his back.

_If I was a more conceited person, I'd be worried about the helmet not fitting,_ Marcus grinned to himself.

He climbed the stairs back up to the Wind District, intending to stop at Jorrvaskr, when he saw the little beggar girl, Lucia, sitting on a bench under the large dead tree, listening to that priest pontificate endlessly about Talos.

Quietly he slipped up behind her just in time to hear her murmur, "I'm so hungry…"

Immediately, Marcus felt his throat constrict. A stinging in his eyes threatened to cloud his vision. Blinking quickly, he stepped around in front of her.

"Hello, little girl," he said, gruffly, past the lump in his throat.

She looked up at him, large brown eyes staring back at him dully from a pinched, hollow-cheeked face.

"Mister?" she murmured. "Could you spare a coin?" There was no hope in the question. It was as if she already expected the answer to be 'no'.

Marcus cleared his throat. "Who are you, child? Where do you live?"

"I'm Lucia," she whispered nervously, and he realized how he must look to her, towering over her in his new armor. He quickly bent down to his knees, putting himself more on her level. "I live here in Whiterun…now." The last word was so quiet he almost didn't catch it.

"Where are your parents?" he asked gently.

"They're—" the child swallowed hard, and he could see tears welling up. "They're gone. I don't remember my papa."

"Don't you have other family?" Marcus prompted. "Why are you begging?"

"It's what….it's what Brenuin said I should do," she admitted, blushing. Brenuin….Brenuin…Marcus couldn't place the name until Lucia nodded toward a man in rags coming up the stairs. He took one look at Marcus and reversed direction, heading back down the stairs.

"He's the only one who's been nice to me since Mama—" the child's voice caught on a sob. "Since Mama died," she finally finished.

"Well, don't you have anyone else to look after you?" Marcus asked, feeling his heart break for her.

"My aunt and uncle took over our farm," Lucia said hollowly. "They threw me out. They said I wasn't good for anything. I wound up here. I try to get money to buy food, but I – I don't know what else to do." Large, fat tears spilled down her cheeks. "I just miss her so much," she whispered.

He'd been a father, in his other life; a grandfather, too, in fact. Whatever had happened in their thirty-plus years of marriage, he and Lynne had always made sure the kids had the basic necessities of life: food, clothing, shelter, education and medicine. And there was always love, even when they didn't have much else. They'd been through lean times and fat times together, but they remained a family. A deep ache inside filled him as he finally let go of the loved ones he knew he'd never be able to hold again.

But his inner dragon was rearing up in outrage. _How dare they?_ He didn't know who this unnamed aunt and uncle were, but if he ever found out, there would be a reckoning for throwing a child out into the world alone and unprotected, homeless, friendless and riddled with unjustified guilt about her own worth.

_This doesn't help her now,_ he told himself. _Lucia is the one you need to think about right now. The aunt and uncle can wait…for now._

Calming himself, Marcus stood and took the child by the hand, pulling her to her feet.

"Come with me," he smiled. "I'm going to make sure you have someplace warm and dry to sleep tonight. And you're going to get a proper meal, too."

Lucia pulled away, shrinking back.

"No, I – I can't!" she exclaimed. "I – I don't even know you!"

He hesitated. "Fair enough," he said finally. "My name is Marcus, and I would like very much to help you, if you'll let me. I'm not going to hurt you. If you won't come with me, then take these coins and go down to the Bannered Mare. Get yourself something to eat. I'll be staying there tonight, so run along, and I'll see you later."

Lucia stared in wonder at the handful of coins he'd given her. Her eyes grew larger, if that were even possible, and something akin to a ghost of a smile touched her lips briefly.

"I – I – thank you, Mister!" she breathed. "Divines bless your kind soul!" She turned and walked slowly away, tucking the coins into her pocket before heading down the stairs.

It was a start, Marcus thought. At least the child wouldn't be afraid of him next time he saw her. And he promised himself there _would_ be a next time. More determined than ever to secure a home of his own, Marcus decided not to visit Jorrvaskr after all and headed down the stairs himself, just in time to see the beggar man, Brenuin, forcibly taking the coins from Lucia, who was struggling in his grip.

Only the barest shred of restraint prevent Marcus from drawing his sword on an unarmed man, but Brenuin would never realize just how lucky he was to end up with only two broken ribs and a fractured jaw. The guards, once they realized it was the new Thane who was defending the little beggar girl from what amounted to robbery, let him go with a warning and hauled Brenuin off to the jail under Dragonsreach.

Hulda was a tougher case, insisting she didn't have time to watch after a small child. Marcus had to part with a bit more of his precious coin to get her to change her mind.

"Oh, all right, then," Hulda muttered. "She can sleep by the fire back in the kitchen," she agreed. "I'm not giving up room for a paying customer to take in a beggar child off the streets. That's what the orphanage in Riften is for."

"And she gets three meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner, understand?" Marcus insisted.

"Only if she'll work for it," Hulda said stiffly. "She can dust the rooms upstairs and sweep the floors. Goodness knows Saadia is too busy with the customers to see to it."

"I promise I'll do a good job, Miss Hulda!" Lucia said solemnly.

"See that you do," Hulda scowled at her. "And this had better be just a temporary arrangement, Dragonborn," she glowered at him. "I'm not running a charitable institution here, you know."

"You're all heart, Hulda," Marcus said smoothly, biting back words he'd rather say. The woman sniffed and returned to her counter.

"What did she mean, 'Dragonborn', Mister?" Lucia asked, wide-eyed, as they retreated to the kitchen to get Lucia settled for the night.

Marcus knelt down beside her again. "What do you know about the Dragonborn, Lucia?" he asked gently.

"Lars told me once that the Dragonborn was a hero who lived a long time ago," she said. "But you don't look _that_ old."

He chuckled at that. "I'm not," he assured her. "But from what the Greybeards told me, every now and again, when there's trouble in the world, a Dragonborn comes forward to put everything right once more." It was a watered-down version, he knew, but he felt it was something Lucia would be able to understand.

The child nodded. "Thank you for helping me, Mister Dragonborn. And please don't be too mad at Brenuin. He's not like that all the time. Only when he drinks."

_Which was probably most of the time,_ Marcus thought sourly, but he steeled his expression not to show his anger to the child snuggling down into the bedroll. Even in this light, by the fire, he could see how small, frail and young she was. It was criminal, he thought, that the people of Whiterun seemed not to care what might happen to her.

_You could do something,_ his inner dragon chided.

Yes, he could. But he'd have to get a house first.

* * *

><p>"I said I wanted a child's bedroom, Proventus," Marcus glared. "Did I stutter?"<p>

"Oh, no, Dragonborn!" the Steward of Whiterun exclaimed. "It's just that – I didn't think – I mean, you haven't gotten your Housecarl…you know?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, glancing at Lydia standing respectfully several feet away.

Marcus leaned in closer. "If you _ever_ make that kind of suggestion to me again," he said in a low voice, with a smile on his face that never reached his eyes, "you'll think High King Torygg got off easy. Understand?"

Proventus gulped. "C-completely, Dragonb-born," he stammered. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Good," Marcus smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "A _child's bedroom_, Proventus. And see that it gets finished first." The arrangements having been made, Marcus dropped off a hefty pouch of gold, turned and left the Steward standing at the top of the hall.

"How long will it take, my Thane?" Lydia asked as they emerged outside.

"A few weeks, at least," Marcus said. "That's why I'm going to need you here to see that everything gets done right."

Lydia stopped. Marcus went down a few more steps before turning with his eyebrow raised. "Something wrong?"

"No, my Thane," Lydia hesitated. "I just thought – I mean—"

"Did I miss something?" Marcus demanded irritably. "Is today, 'Question the Dragonborn's Decisions Day'?"

Lydia stiffened. She was being put in her place, and whether justified or not, she had no right to argue. "No, my Thane," she answered, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. "Will you be going to Ustengrav, then?" _Without me? _she bit back.

"Yes, it's on my 'List of Things To Do'," he replied. "I'm taking Uthgerd the Unbroken with me. Woman packs a wallop, I can assure you," he continued, rubbing his jaw pensively. "I'm officially adopting Lucia as well, and I'll need you to stay with her until other arrangements can be made." He turned away and headed down the stairs to find Lucia and give her the good news.

_So that's it, then,_ Lydia thought. _Welcome to the ranks of the Left Behind._ Well, what had she expected? That her Thane would fall in love with her and they'd get married and live happily ever after? That sort of thing might happen in Bards' tales, but rarely in real life.

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," she muttered under her breath. She just hadn't anticipated that a child would be one of them. Adopting Lucia had been a surprise, but not totally unexpected. She knew he'd been worried about the little girl since he'd first seen her under the stairs at the Bannered Mare two weeks previous. Since that time he'd been driven, taking any kind of bounty job, doing any kind of work to earn enough coin to purchase Breezehome and thereby provide a home for the child. It had been a glorious fortnight of adventure after adventure, fighting by his side, watching his back, and seeing him grow stronger and more confident in his abilities. She was quite certain there wasn't a bandit camp, cave or mine anywhere in Whiterun Hold that hadn't felt the wrath of the Dragonborn.

_Honeymoon's over, Lydders,_ she thought sadly. _He doesn't love you. He never did. You built up this romantic notion that had no basis in fact._ Surprisingly, that thought didn't hurt as much as the knowledge she was being left behind to be a glorified nanny.

_You aren't in love with him, either,_ she realized. _You were in love with the idea of love, with the knowledge that of all people, he is the Dragonborn, and you are his Housecarl. That's all you will ever be._

"No," she whispered to herself. "That's not all. I can be his friend, too." Squaring her shoulders and finding that it wasn't as hard as she thought to put a smile on her face, Lydia followed her Thane.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: The lyrics to 'Scarborough FairCanticle' are copyright Paul Simon Music, Ed., and performed by Simon and Garfunkle. It was a favorite song of mine when I was a teen-ager, and since I've been playing Skyrim I've often thought what songs I know today might best translate there. I had to alter the opening line a bit, because as Marcus said, "No one here would know where Scarborough Fair was."]_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_[Author's Note__**: **__Marcus learns a painful lesson about making assumptions…about people, about situations, and especially about his own abilities.]_

* * *

><p>The trip to Morthal was uneventful. The carriage dropped Marcus and Uthgerd off, then departed soon after. With no stable to rest the horses and few paying customers, there was no point in Bjorlam staying. Marcus had gotten to know more about the tall, blonde Nord woman during the ride, drawing her out in conversation without revealing too much about his own unbelievable past. She was Ulfberth War-Bear's sister, he learned, and that made her sister-in-law to Adrianne Avenicci, who owned Warmaiden's. No wonder she was equipped to the nines with her plate armor and finely-honed steel greatsword.<p>

He mentioned his intentions to join the ranks of the Companions, and was instantly subject to a hostile, if quiet tirade against the group of mercenaries.

"I tried to join them," Uthgerd admitted, "but they threw me out."

Marcus didn't like the sound of this. Uthgerd, he could tell already, was a formidable woman. Why wouldn't the Companions want her at Jorrvaskr?

Uthgerd saw the surprise on his face, warring with the curiosity to know what had happened. She sighed and relented.

"It wasn't my fault," she said in her quiet way, gazing out over the tundra, and not meeting his eyes. "I told them over and over again that it was an accident. They wanted me to prove my worth, so they threw me up against a young whelp of a lad, hardly old enough to grow his first chin hairs." She gave a bitter laugh. "I guess they thought a woman wouldn't be strong enough to hurt him."

She turned back to Marcus, and he could see the anguish in her eyes, the pleading for him to understand. "I didn't mean for him to die. Why would I want that? I just….lost control."

Marcus didn't know what to say. It wasn't as if Uthgerd had deliberately set out to kill her opponent. Surely, the members of the Companions had to have seen that. But by her own admission, Uthgerd had lost control of herself in the heat of battle. Even when they had been talking, before their brawl the other night, she boasted that a true Nord would never back down from the opportunity to prove him or herself in battle.

But it wasn't a battle against a deadly opponent. It was a sparring match to see if she had what it took to be a Companion, and apparently, she had failed. It was probably why she spent most of her nights drinking at the Bannered Mare. Marcus felt sorry for her, but couldn't reconcile his own conflicting feelings. On the one hand, he wanted to be able to trust her to have his back; on the other, he needed to know she wouldn't go full-out berserker on him at the wrong moment. He almost wished Lydia were here.

Thinking of Lydia brought a flush of shame over his face. He'd treated her pretty shabbily, leaving her behind to take care of the house and keep an eye on Lucia for him. The woman was a fully trained Housecarl, sworn to protect him and all he owned. At the time, it seemed like the right idea to have her supervise the repairs to Breezehome and the organizing of the furnishings. And who better to make sure Hulda provided room and board to Lucia while he was gone than the woman who was sworn to look after his affairs?

But it was badly done, he realized. He'd pretty much told her without words that she was of no further use to him, he'd moved on to bigger and better things. Squirming inwardly, he vowed to make it up to her when he got back. Right now, he needed to focus on finding Ustengrav, which was clearly marked on the map Lydia had given him after comparing theirs to Farengar's. Once he had the Horn, he could return it, and then maybe they'd hire a nanny to look after Lucia while the two of them searched for those Word Walls together. As long as they weren't gone for extended periods of time, it could be a very good life for the little girl.

As they approached the largest building in Morthal, High Moon Hall, they saw a crowd of people gathered outside, angrily discussing civics with a man at the top of the stairs.

"And what's the Jarl going to do about it?" one man demanded.

"How are we supposed to feel safe in our own home?" insisted another.

_Uh oh_, he thought. _Local politics again. Best not to get involved._

"Please," said the man on the stairs. "I have already told Idgrod of your concerns. The Jarl will be taking care of the matter. Now please, return to your homes, all of you."

Grumbling, the crowd dispersed, and Marcus heard mutterings about sorcerers in their midst. As it was late in the day, he decided the best thing to do would be to take rooms at the local inn and set out for Ustengrav in the morning. His own experiences with swamps and marshes from his previous life told him they were treacherous places to blunder around in the dark.

The shell of a burned-out house sat next to the Moorside Inn; its charred timbers and scorched stone a haunting reminder of a fairly recent tragedy, from the looks of it. Marcus shuddered and hoped everyone had gotten out alright.

A Redguard woman behind the counter looked up hopefully as they entered. Over in the corner, a fellow who looked like Shrek was tuning a lute.

"Welcome to the Moorside," the woman said. "Name's Jonna. If you need anything, I'll be 'round. Good to have a customer!"

"Two rooms, and supper," Marcus said, warming his hands by the fire pit. It was always cold in Skyrim, it seemed, but the days seemed to be getting even shorter and colder than before. Lydia had schooled him on the calendar of Skyrim, and that it was currently the two hundred and first year of the fourth era. It seemed that the months had the same number of days as the Julian calendar he was familiar with, and since his arrival in Helgen, eight weeks had passed. It was now the beginning of Frostfall, or October in his old life, and he realized with a start that the next day, the 6th of Frostfall, would have been his birthday.

_And how are you celebrating it?_ he mocked himself. _By crawling around yet another ancient Nordic ruin!_

Shoving those morbid thoughts aside, Marcus stowed his gear in the room to which he'd been assigned and rejoined Uthgerd in the main hall. A few of the locals were trickling in, and the green guy with the lute was talking with Jonna.

"Jonna, do you think the townspeople are warming to my serenades?" he rumbled expectantly.

"No," she said bluntly. "And they ain't gonna, Lurbuk. If you weren't payin' for your room, I'd have thrown you out a long time ago."

Marcus thought that was pretty harsh, but Lurbuk seemed unfazed by her criticism.

"Yes, but they'll come around eventually," he said confidently. "You'll see."

Jonna rolled her eyes, but clearly this was lost on Lurbuk. "Oh, I shouldn't be surprised if they come 'round," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And if you're never seen or heard from agin."

Lurbuk shrugged and returned to his position at the back of the inn, playing on the lute. It wasn't bad, Marcus thought, though Sven was better.

"You don't seem to have much confidence in your bard," Marcus commented to Jonna as she served up the grilled chicken breasts and leeks.

"Ugh!" Jonna sighed exasperatedly. "He's not a bad fellow," she said, "for an Orc. Just don't let him sing. The man's got a wooden ear."

So, that was an Orc? Judging from his bulging muscles and brutish features, Marcus would have thought he'd have chosen a far different life in Skyrim than that of a bard, but it took all kinds.

"Well," a seductive voice purred in his ear, and Marcus started. He'd never heard the woman come up on his other side. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized that that kind of mistake could cost him his life here. He needed to stay aware of his surroundings at all times.

"Aren't you the handsome one," the dark-haired woman approved. "I'm Alva. You and I should spend some time together." She drew a caressing hand across his carved Nordic cuirass, practically oozing feminine charm. She wore a corset over a tight-fitting dress that was split up to her thighs, and cut so low in the front it did nothing to hide her ample charms. Gold bracelets jangled at her wrists, and an expensive-looking gold necklace hung around her long, sensuous neck, dropping into the valley between her breasts. Her eyes were so amber they almost glowed, and Marcus felt himself being drawn into that gaze.

She smelled so good, all earthy and musky, and Marcus never noticed the man sitting a few feet away scowling at him.

"We aren't staying that long," Uthgerd's usually mellow voice shattered the moment, seeming much coarser and harsher than the vision before him.

Irritated, Alva tore her gaze from Marcus and swept over Uthgerd's tightly braided hair, which looked like straw in comparison to the silken midnight of Alva's tresses. The plate steel armor was hard, cold and unyielding, whereas Alva was all curves in the right places and so, so inviting.

For a moment, it looked as though she might have said something to the warrior woman, but instead she affected a light laugh and touched Marcus on the hand.

"We'll have to get acquainted later, handsome," she promised. It was only after she left with the scowling man that Marcus realized how cold that touch had seemed.

"I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn," Uthgerd said, though there was nothing of apology in her tone. "I've seen her kind before."

"What do you mean?" Marcus said, giving himself a mental shake and trying to find the appetite for his dinner, which seemed now not so appetizing.

"That kind of woman preys on men," Uthgerd said disapprovingly. "She already came in with one man, and then decided you looked like a better choice, heedless of her partner's feelings." Uthgerd's lips pursed sourly. "She's a tramp, and I don't like her kind. Still, it's not my place to interfere, and if you were interested in her, I will apologize to her."

"No," Marcus said, shaking his head to get the vision of Alva out of it. "You're probably right. We've got other things to do, and I shouldn't get involved with someone like that."

They finished their meal in silence, and afterwards Marcus stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The dark skeleton of the burned-out house caught his eye again, and he wondered again how long ago it had happened, and if anyone had been hurt. Why hadn't they pulled the rest of it down? It was an eyesore now, and a sad reminder of a tragedy, whatever its magnitude.

The night sky was clear, and he stared in wonder at the scattering of stars across the firmament. There were no moons tonight. Masser and Secunda had both risen late last night and had set sometime during the day. They wouldn't be up for hours yet. Lydia had told him some of the brightest stars formed constellations that related to the Standing Stones that were scattered across Skyrim, and she had pointed out The Warrior to him. He searched for it now, and found it just above the Jarl's longhouse, High Moon Hall.

_The one I chose, that first day out of Helgen,_ he thought. _The one that is supposed to guide my steps._ He hoped that was true. He was stronger now than he used to be; more confident, able to fight better. Where it would lead, he didn't know. Not for the first time he wished he knew where Tamsyn had gone, but now, instead of feeling resentment over the abandonment, he felt a sense of sadness and concern. He hoped she was alright.

* * *

><p>"You're sure we're doing the right thing?" Uthgerd said for the fourth time. They were sitting in a clump of trees near an open grave. A small coffin rested awkwardly in it, as though someone had tried to remove it, but wasn't strong enough to.<p>

"I'm positive," Marcus said. "The little girl, Helgi, told me to find her before the 'other one' could. Jarl Idgrod thought the cemetery would be the best place to start looking."

"You were talking to a ghost," Uthgerd muttered, and Marcus gave an exasperated sigh.

"I know that!" he hissed. "But that little girl won't rest easy unless someone helps her. Now let's just be quiet and wait for this 'other one' to show up."

Uthgerd looked as though she would argue the point, but decided to take a more diplomatic tack and said nothing. Marcus could sense her impatience and irritation, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

He had never believed in ghosts before, in his old life, but since he had arrived in Skyrim he'd seen a lot of things he would have said were impossible before; dragons were foremost among them, followed closely by walking dead. But an idle comment to Jonna last night told him the story of the burned-out house, and sensing an opportunity to unravel a mystery – which he never could resist – Marcus had gone to Jarl Idgrod and found himself staking out the cemetery after talking to the ghost of a little girl, Helgi, who had died in the fire. Now he felt he owed it to Helgi to uncover the truth. Did her father really set the fire that claimed her life, and the life of her mother?

He'd sought out Hroggar earlier in the day, at the lumber mill – even chopped wood for the man to get him to talk – but he seemed completely unaffected by the recent loss of his wife and daughter. So much so that he had moved in with Alva, the vision of beauty Marcus had seen the night before, shortly after the fire. That alone was enough to elicit feelings he'd rather not name. He'd gone to sleep the night before and had had erotic dreams involving the woman, and had awoken with a raging hard-on.

Something moved in the shadows, and Marcus and Uthgerd pulled back further into their copse of trees. A solitary figure emerged and picked up a nearby shovel, attempting to clear more of the newly-turned earth in an attempt to remove the coffin.

Marcus felt rage boiling up. How dare they desecrate that little girl's grave? Without thinking, he rushed forward, drawing his sword. Twin pin-points of amber glared at him in the darkness and the figure raised a hand. A reddish glow spewed forth, hitting Marcus directly in the chest. Weakness filled him as lethargy spread through his limbs. He nearly dropped the battleaxe as his hands lost the sensation of feeling.

"Oblivion take you, you filthy vampire!" Uthgerd shouted. She leaped over the grave and brought her greatsword sweeping around, slicing the figure across the middle. With a shriek, the figure collapsed to the ground. The reddish glow stopped, and Marcus felt his strength slowly returning.

"What the fuck what that?" he gasped.

Uthgerd scowled at his epithet. "Watch the language, mister," she warned. "I may be a warrior, but I'm still a lady!" She pointed at the woman lying on the ground. "That, my friend, is – or I should say, _was_ – a vampire."

"Sorry," Marcus muttered. Another aspect of this new world he needed to remember: when and where it was appropriate to swear. "That's a vampire?" he asked now.

"Didn't you notice the glowing eyes?" Uthgerd asked in surprise. "The way she was drawing out your life-force?" Glowing eyes? Amber eyes, like Alva's.

"She?" Marcus echoed. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach lurched through him. It wasn't Alva, was it? In the gloom of the night it was hard to tell. But no, this woman, though she had dark hair, was not Alva, and he breathed a sigh of relief. This woman had the softer features, despite the vampiric look, of a Breton.

"_It's Laelette," _a small voice said behind him. Turning, Marcus saw the ghost of little Helgi standing there. _"Alva told Laelette to burn Mommy and me, but she didn't want to,"_ Helgi said. _"She kissed me on the neck, and I got so cold the fire didn't even hurt. She wanted to take me and keep me forever, but she can't; I'm all burned up," _the little girl finished sadly. _"I'm tired now. I'm going to go to sleep."_

"Helgi, wait!" Marcus exclaimed, but she was gone. That cold feeling in the pit of his stomach was threatening to bring supper up with it. _Alva_ told Laelette to set the fire? Just so she could have Hroggar? But that would mean Hroggar had had no objections to the murder of his own wife and daughter; he might even have been an accomplice to it! Feeling sick, Marcus realized he'd almost felt _attracted_ to the woman.

"Laelette!" a man's voice cried out. "Laelette!"

Running up the path from the village was Thonnir. Marcus remembered him from earlier in the day, when he'd gone to the mill to talk to Hroggar. In point of fact, he had talked to nearly everyone in town that day to find out more about what had happened at Hroggar's house. Thonnir was particularly unhelpful, being more concerned about his missing wife, Laelette. The man had a son, too, Virkmund, whom Marcus had overheard talking to Joric, the Jarl's son, and Agni, the little girl who lived with Jonna's brother Falion, the sorcerer.

"Who are the Stormcloaks?" he'd asked. "And why would Mama want to spend time with them instead of me?" His friends had shaken their heads, unable to answer the question.

"She's….she'd dead…" Thonnir muttered brokenly now, crouching and picking up the bloody remains of the vampire they'd slain. "My poor, poor Laelette!"

Marcus and Uthgerd said nothing for several moments as they let the man's grief run its course.

"Thonnir," Marcus said finally, quietly, "I'm more sorry for this than you can know. But maybe I can find out what happened, if you'll tell me what you know."

Making a huge effort to get himself under control, Thonnir looked up at the two of them. Drawing a ragged breath, he spoke. "Laelette just vanished one day. Left without a word. I searched all over the marshes for her, but I couldn't find any trace. Virkmund, my boy, has been doing his best to keep a brave face, but how could a mother just leave her child like that? It isn't right!"

Marcus could hardly agree more.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" he asked. "Who was the last person to have seen her?"

"She began spending a lot of time with Alva," Thonnir said slowly, as if remembering back, "yet just a week before she despised the woman. The night before she disappeared, she was supposed to meet with Alva out on the marsh, but Alva told me later she never showed up, and said she'd gone to join the Stormcloaks."

The pieces clicked into place in a theory Marcus couldn't ignore.

"_They say if a vampire so much as scratches you, that you'll turn into one!" _How many times had he heard one of the guards say that?

"I think they may have met after all," he said gently. He didn't want to believe it himself, but the circumstantial evidence against Alva was piling up.

"But that would mean—" Thonnir was quick on the uptake, Marcus would give him that. "You think Alva is a vampire?"

"It's a possibility we can't ignore," Marcus said.

"No!" Thonnir cried, "You're wrong! I'll never believe Alva was involved in this! There's no way you can prove that!" He collapsed, sobbing, back down onto the body of his wife.

There was nothing more Marcus and Uthgerd could do. They left the cemetery to head back into the village.

"What now, Marcus?" Uthgerd asked. Despite herself, she found she was becoming more and more interested in solving the mystery they'd discovered here. "Without proof, you can't go to Jarl Idgrod and accuse Alva of being a vampire. Especially if she's known here and you're not, and she's already got half the men in this town under her sway."

"We'll need more evidence, then," Marcus said grimly.

"And how are you going to get it?" Uthgerd asked.

"I'm going to search her house."

* * *

><p><em>Bad idea,<em> Marcus thought. _This was a very bad idea._ He and Uthgerd entered the cave known as Movarth's Lair together, after insisting the townsfolk return to their homes.

"Go!" Thonnir, the last to be persuaded, had said. "Go and avenge my Laelette for me!"

He wasn't doing it for vengeance, Marcus thought. Well, okay, partly for that, but not really for Laelette. It was for a little girl who would never have the chance to grow up and live the life she should have had.

Breaking into Alva's house was nerve-wracking enough. He had to wait until the village guards were looking the other way, and then try to pick the lock on the door. He didn't have many picks with him, either, and during his trip through Bleak Falls Barrow, Tamsyn had picked all the locks they'd had to get through. She had showed him how, but it was still very difficult to do.

Hroggar had attacked them as they came in, which meant a scuffle ensued, resulting in the man's death. Marcus tried to feel some kind of pity for him, but if he was merely a thrall under Alva's control, surviving the ordeal would have broken the man, once he realized he'd helped to murder his own family.

Down in the basement of Alva's house, he and Uthgerd had finally found the proof they needed: a coffin lined with soil, open and waiting for its mistress to return, and tucked inside was a journal revealing the grand master plan regarding the bleak future of Morthal. Alva had been turned by a vampire named Movarth Pequine out in the marshes. With his help, Alva planned to turn the entire village of Morthal into a kind of "feeding farm" for the coven of vampires Movarth planned to create in a nearby cave.

Marcus had taken the journal to Jarl Idgrod, who had looked through it and expressed her concern about the Master Vampire mentioned in the leather-bound book.

"I had thought, like many others, that Morvath Pequine had been destroyed centuries ago," she confessed. "Now it appears he threatens Morthal once more. I beg you, young Marcus, go into the lair and rid us of this menace once and for all. I'll assemble a group of people to go with you."

The angry mob – for indeed, they were little more than that – had more anger than courage, it turned out. While all of them agreed the vampires must be destroyed, none of them – except Thonnir – wanted to go into the lair and risk their lives to do it. Not one of them wore armor, or were skilled with weapons.

_Where's all the guards I've seen wandering around?_ Marcus wondered. _Isn't this their bailiwick?_

He couldn't risk the lives of the townsfolk. He knew that. But two of them – he and Uthgerd – going into the vampire lair by themselves wasn't exactly the best laid plan, either. He was low on potions, and mentioned this to Uthgerd. Thankfully, Lami, at the Thaumaturgist's Hut offered to open her shop for him. She had a handful of potions, she told him, which would cure vampirism, if he caught it while clearing out the lair, and he gratefully bought everything she had, in addition to some healing and stamina potions. He had decided to wait until dawn, figuring the vampires in the lair might be weaker than if he attempted to fight them in the middle of the night.

"I'm right behind you," Uthgerd said now, and to the woman's credit, there was no trace of the nervousness _he_ felt inside. These were honest-to-God, blood-sucking _vampires_, for Christ's sake, and he'd seen too many movies not to be unnerved about walking right into a den full of them. And one of them was supposed to be this Vampire Lord, Movarth, who was supposed to have died hundreds of years ago.

_Surprise!_ he thought sourly. _Well, you wanted a mystery. This is the end of the story. Let's do this._

The first two caverns were easy enough. He got the drop on the look-out stationed near the entrance to the cave by shooting her in the back. She never heard the arrow that claimed her unlife. The one in the pit was a bit trickier, since in order to get him, Marcus had had to sneak up closer. But stepping on a femur bone that crunched under his steel-shod boot alerted the man, and from there it was a frenzied skirmish to take him out while avoiding getting scratched or drained again.

The inner chamber was large and sprawling, with a path that led up and around the outer perimeter to the left. Uthgerd motioned she would move ahead, and let Marcus take the upper level if he chose. He nodded and they split up.

The path dog-legged to the left, but gave him a great view overlooking the entire chamber. A handful of lesser vampires, and what Uthgerd told him were thralls – those bound to serve the vampire, like Hroggar had been – wandered around the cavern, waiting on their Lord's pleasure.

There he was: the Vampire Lord Movarth himself. The black armor he wore was fastened with silver buckles. His long white hair was swept back from a cruelly-chisled face. Amber eyes glared out over his domain. Marcus realized several things at once: he was totally outclassed here, Uthgerd was waiting for his signal, and his best chance of victory was to take Movarth out as quickly as possible. He nocked an arrow, drew and let fly, following it swiftly with two more, only one of which hit as Movarth stood quickly and side-stepped out of the way.

_Damn!_ He had been hoping to avoid going toe-to-toe with the Vampire Lord. But Uthgerd was already rushing in. When several more of the lesser vampires and thralls moved in from the side chambers, Marcus realized he may have made a great tactical error. He should have sneaked quietly through the side chambers and taken them out one at a time. Now the entire complex was arrayed against them.

_We're fucked._

There was no hope for it. Uthgerd was already staggering under the onslaught of five lesser vampires. Movarth didn't see the need to become involved, confident his minions would be able to handle things without his assistance or interference.

Reloading his bow, and keeping the advantage of height for now, Marcus began picking off the thralls and lesser vampires from his vantage point on the causeway. But as two and three and four of them fell to his arrows, he soon realized that some, including Movarth himself, were taking aim at him with their draining spells. He felt himself weakening and withdrew further around the corner, discovering a tunnel which led away and down, probably to the main chamber below. From the tail of his eye, he saw two vampires duck down a passage to the left which most likely joined up with the tunnel at his back.

Putting the bow away and drawing his battleaxe, Marcus hurried down the corridor to meet them. Before he got to the bottom, however, he heard the sounds of fighting ahead of him and peeked around a corner In time to see Alva kill one of the vampires before being killed by the other. The last one standing turned and saw him, advancing with red glowing hand extended.

Marcus gritted his teeth against the weakness and swung the axe as he ran forward, cleaving the vampire in two. Huffing with the exertion, he paused for a moment to be sure Alva and the other vampire were both dead. Why had she turned on them? Or had they turned on her, thinking she had led Uthgerd and him here. That was the more likely explanation.

But time to think about that later. Right now, Uthgerd needed his help.

He rounded the corner to see a terrifying tableau: Movarth had Uthgerd gripped about her neck with one hand, raised off the floor of the cavern. Her eyes were dull with pain and she didn't see him. Movarth did, however, and grinned cruelly as he drew her close and sank his fangs into her neck. She twitched once or twice while Marcus remained rooted to the spot in horror, then went limp. Movarth casually threw the woman away from him. She landed in an undignified heap against the cavern wall.

"Pathetic fool!" the Vampire Lord rasped. "Did you honestly believe you could defeat _me_? I have survived thousands of such attempts over hundreds of years. You may have decimated my ranks for now, but when I have drained you, you will rise up again as a thrall under my control, and you will serve me loyally." The audacity of it all seemed to amuse Movarth no end, for he began cackling madly.

Marcus found he could move again, and did so.

"_FUS RO!"_

Movarth staggered back several feet, not expecting this kind of assault.

Screaming out his anguish, Marcus charged forward with the Axe of Whiterun raised, swinging it with everything that was in him. The look of surprise on Movarth's face stayed long after it was separated from his body.

Ignoring the dead vampire for the moment, Marcus rushed to Uthgerd's side. Quickly he stripped off his gauntlets and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He could feel nothing, and anguish threatened to choke him. No. Not like this!

"I'm so sorry, Uthgerd," he whispered, cradling her head in his lap. Tears streamed down his face, and he didn't care. Uthgerd was dead because of him, because of his poor planning, because he wasn't good enough. It would have been better if he'd been the one to die. If this new world of his, Skyrim, depended on him to save them, they were fucked, because he couldn't even keep one traveling companion alive.

How long he sat there in misery, he had no idea. Numbly, he finally rose to his feet, gently laying Uthgerd down and covering her with her traveling cloak. Remembering Lami's caution about the vampiric disease, he downed a potion, then made his way out of the cavern, pausing only long enough to bid farewell to Helgi's ghost, who met him at the top and thanked him for avenging her and her mother.

He barely remembered the trek back to Morthal, alerting the Jarl that the job was done, and guiding a contingent of guards back to retrieve Uthgerd's and Alva's bodies, as well as make sure the bodies of the vampires were destroyed by fire. The pyres burned well into the afternoon and evening, and still Marcus felt detached from it all.

He sat in a corner of the Moorside, nursing a bottle of mead, and staring at the fire dancing in the fire pit. He was aware that someone had come up to sit beside him on the bench, but didn't turn to see who it was until they spoke.

"Uthgerd's death wasn't your fault, young Marcus," the Jarl of Morthal said.

Marcus said nothing, but turned back to stare into the flames.

"From what I saw of her, she was a warrior, and a true Nord through and through," Idgrod continued. "She died doing what she did best – fighting to protect others – and for that, she will rest easy in Sovngarde."

"She'd still be alive if I hadn't brought her with me," Marcus muttered.

"True," Idgrod acknowledged, "but she might have died perhaps in some other battle. Who is to say? Perhaps she might have died of old age, friendless and alone, with no one to take care of her. That is no kind of death for someone who dreams of glory and honor. You gave her that. And truth be told, I think Uthgerd would have preferred to die in combat, than in an old woman's sickbed."

Marcus thought of Tamsyn, and her comments to him in Riverwood.

"_I was an old woman, in a nursing home. My family must have had money…they made sure I was taken care of, so they wouldn't have to."_

"It's my fault she's dead," Marcus insisted. "If we hadn't gone in there, she'd still be alive."

"And if you hadn't," the Jarl of Morthal said sharply, "we would all have ended up as cattle for a lair full of vampires. We have _you_ to thank for preventing that tragedy," Idgrod continued, more gently. "You and your companion, Uthgerd. We will always remember what the two of you did for Morthal."

She rose stiffly and stepped away, turning back as if remembering something.

"No good thing ever comes without a cost, young Dragonborn," she said. "Oh yes, I know who you are. Word is spreading. And even if it hadn't, I see things others don't. Just remember that the good you do in the end will far outweigh the bad that must come with it. Keep that in mind, and as you grow stronger, tragedies like this will not follow as often as you fear they might."

The Jarl left the Inn, and Marcus resumed his study of the fire pit, thinking about what the old woman had said. She might be right, Marcus thought, about some things anyway. Uthgerd loved combat, he knew that, so yes, she probably would have preferred to die in battle as opposed to dying of old age. And yes, if they hadn't gone in to clear the place, it would have been so much worse for the people of Morthal.

"_No good thing ever comes without a cost."_

Perhaps that was true, too, Marcus thought. But there was always a way to minimize risk, if one explored one's options thoroughly enough. He knew that now, and he would never make that mistake again. Before he took anyone else with him on his quests, as he'd come to think of them, he would make sure they knew the risks involved. Not for the first time, he wished he'd brought Lydia with him after all. And for the hundredth time that month, he wondered where Tamsyn was.

* * *

><p>"I don't understand," Benor said, rubbing his head. "What's missing?"<p>

"The Horn, dammit!" Marcus raged. "The goddamned Horn of Jurgen Windcaller that we crawled all the way through this stinking place to retrieve! It should be right there, but it's not!"

Benor looked again at the sarcophagus, inscribed with scratchings that made no sense to him. The center of the lid had an effigy of a hand, raised up to hold something, but it was empty. Empty, that was, except for a folded up piece of parchment.

"Well, whoever took it left you a note, looks like," Benor said, pulling it out of the hand and offering it to Marcus.

Marcus grabbed the parchment and opened it up.

"_Dragonborn," _the note read. _"I need to speak to you urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood and I'll meet you. –A Friend."_

Attic room? There _was_ no attic room at the Sleeping Giant, he knew that for a fact.

"Someone you know?" Benor asked.

"No," Marcus gritted, crushing the paper in his hands and throwing it away from him. "But I bloody well intend to find out who it is."

"So we're headed to Riverwood then?" Benor asked hopefully.

Marcus looked at the man he'd beaten in a fair fist fight, attempting to relieve some of the anguish and guilt he'd felt over Uthgerd's death. Ironically, it was the same way he'd met her, each of them attempting to punch out the other's lights. When Benor went down to his knees, Marcus pulled back, his frustration forgotten. Benor had laughed, clapped him on the back and told him he was one hell of a fighter, and could call on him anytime he needed an extra sword.

Knowing he still needed to delve into Ustengrav for the Horn, Marcus had enlisted the other man's aid, and found him to be an admirable fighter. Benor wasn't afraid of draugr, spiders or things that went _bump_ in the night. They got along reasonably well, and Marcus felt good giving Benor some kind of purpose.

"I keep asking to join the guard here in Morthal," he admitted, "but they keep turning me down. Doesn't keep me from hoping, though."

Now, looking at the hope and expectation in the other man's eyes, Marcus relented.

"Sure," he said. "Let's head back to Morthal. You can pick up whatever you need for a journey and then we'll head out."

"What about all this stuff we've picked up in here?" Benor asked.

"We'll stop at Whiterun on the way to Riverwood," Marcus assured him. "I need to check on a few things at home, anyway."

The trip back took longer than Marcus anticipated. There was no carriage from Morthal, so they had to walk. That meant dealing with anything they met on the road, which included bandits, spiders, wolves, and even, to Benor's amazement, a dragon.

The creature dropped down out of the sky on them without warning and breathed a spew of frost at them that chilled Marcus to the bone. Benor seemed unaffected, however, and immediately drew his sword.

"I'll rip you to pieces!" he shouted, laying into the dragon, who appeared startled that this puny creature would assault him thusly. It snapped at Benor, who merely laughed and dodged out of its way before it launched itself into the air again.

Marcus took aim and Shouted, _"Fus Ro!"_ at it, hitting it squarely on the underbelly, making it lurch before it wheeled off.

"Uh oh, incoming!" Marcus warned. He darted to one side to avoid the stream of ice strafing them. He felt the temperature in the immediate area plummet, but at least he hadn't got hit this time.

The dragon was circling around for another attack and Marcus drew his bow. He was getting better at archery, he felt, but only because the bow had a very small learning curve to it. Once you learned the basics, it was simply a matter of practice, practice, practice until you were as good as you were possibly going to get. He'd found some arrows in Ustengrav that Benor told him were of Dwarven make, and said they were stronger than steel. This would be the perfect opportunity to test them out – assuming he hit the dragon, of course.

"Here he comes!" Benor shouted, and fired his own bow with his share of the Dwemer arrows. Two of his shots hit, but the third went wide as the dragon swooped past.

Marcus fired his own bow, but only two shots. He wanted the thing to land. Both shots hit, and once more the dragon shuddered in mid-air. Its circle around wasn't quite as wide this time, and it landed about a hundred yards away from them in the flattest, clearest spot it could find.

"_FO KRAH DIIN!"_ the creature Shouted at them, sending another blast of frost their way, and Marcus made a mental note to see if he could find that Shout anywhere. Breathing fire would be cool; breathing fire and ice would be even better.

"Let's flank it!" he yelled to Benor, who nodded and began circling around the dragon's left side while Marcus worked his way around its right. Unable to keep its eyes on both men at the same time, the dragon opted to go after Marcus.

"That's it, you scaly, overgrown newt!" he taunted. "Come at me!"

_SNAP!_

Jaws full of razor-sharp teeth lunged at him, missing by a mere arm's length. Marcus refused to be intimidated, however, and slashed at the giant, flying lizard's wing. If it couldn't fly, he and Benor could take it out.

The axe connected, but only a glancing blow; the dragon's scales were tougher than anything Marcus had ever tried to cut through. A shriek from the creature, and a reflexive snap at its left side told him Benor must have hit. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard Benor laugh.

"Didn't like that, did ya, you egg-sucking salamander!"

The dragon attempted to turn itself toward Benor to be able to snap at him, but Marcus swung the battleaxe again and kept its attention focused on him. No way did he want to lose another companion due to his own failings.

"The fight's over here, draugr-breath!" he mocked the drake. "I'm waiting to take your soul!"

Furious, the frost dragon blew out a cone of cold right at Marcus, who felt it deep in his bones. He thought Des Moines had brutal winters, but he'd never faced a cold that sunk in right to his core the way the dragon breath did. His muscles screamed in protest and refused to move as fast as they should.

Panicking, he backed away, but it wasn't fast enough. The dragon was coming right at him, maw gaping wide open to chomp him into a mass of quivering, bloody flesh, and there was nothing he could do about it.

And suddenly, the dragon convulsed as Benor sliced open its throat with his battleaxe.

Relief washed over Marcus. "Thanks, Benor!" he gulped gratefully. "I owe you one."

And then the dragon lit up like the Fourth of July as its soul poured forth, streaming into Marcus and settling into a corner of his mind next to Mir Mul Nir. For a long moment, Marcus stood there, sifting through the creature's memories and knowledge. He knew he could use the soul to unlock the meaning of _kaan_, the Word he'd found in Shroud Hearth Barrow, but instead he decided to wait and see what other Words might come along.

Benor stood dumbfounded and open-mouthed. "I—I can't believe it!" he finally exclaimed. "You took its soul!"

"Yeah," Marcus admitted, still trying to get used to the idea himself. "I have a habit of doing that, it appears."

"You—you're the one!" Benor breathed in awe. "You're the Dragonborn!"

"Yeah," Marcus nodded. "I guess I am."

"And this Horn you had to find…?"

"For the Greybeards," Marcus told him. "It's supposed to be my final trial before they officially recognize me as Dragonborn. Only now it's gone missing."

Benor smirked. "Well, then, let's get going and find this thief. And when we catch up to them –" Here he cracked his knuckles in apparent glee. "We'll show 'em you don't steal from a Dragon!"

Marcus found himself actually grinning. There was no mistake: Benor was starting to grow on him.

* * *

><p><em>[For those of you who love Uthgerd, I'm sorry. I toyed with the idea of letting her live, but the story seemed too sappy and contrived that way. To all intents and purposes, this is Marcus' "real life", now. Very often in life, people die and you are helpless to prevent it. Next chapter is ready, so I'm posting it along with this. It's shorter, but much more light-hearted.]<em>


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_[Author's Note: A shorter, much fluffier chapter here. Marcus realizes just how much he's missed being a Dad.]_

* * *

><p>Whiterun looked the same as he'd left it, but it was a somber homecoming. His first stop had to be at Warmaiden's, to inform Ulfberth of his sister's death. The big man stared at him glassy-eyed as Adrianne choked back a sob. They listened quietly as Marcus told his tale and handed over Uthgerd's sword. They had buried her in her armor. Ulfberth quietly thanked him for bringing the news. As Marcus left, Adrianne closed up shop early behind him. Shoulders sagging, he joined Benor, who had waited outside.<p>

"They gonna be alright?" Benor asked sympathetically.

"In time, I think so," Marcus sighed. "They didn't blame me; said she died the way she'd have wanted. But I still feel responsible."

Benor nodded. "You're a good man, to feel that way," he said, "but they're right. Uthgerd made her own choices. You didn't force her to come with you."

Someone came running up to him at that point. He was a young man, wearing a brown tunic over brown trousers and a beige linen shirt.

"Are you Marcus Dragonborn?" the young man asked. When Marcus affirmed that he was, the man replied, "I've got a message for you; your hands only. Not sure from; he wouldn't say. Just that he was a friend of yours." He handed Marcus a sealed piece of parchment. "Looks like that's it," the young man said cheerfully. "Got to go!" He took off at a run toward the city gates.

"Who the hell was _that_?" Marcus wondered out loud.

"Hmph," Benor mused. "Courier. Those guys are everywhere, delivering messages all around Skyrim. I never understood how they don't get killed doing what they do. What's your note say? If you don't mind my askin', that is."

"Not out here," Marcus said. "That's my house, right there, and I haven't even seen the inside yet since I bought it. Let's go on in. Lydia should be there."

Lydia was indeed inside, and so was someone else.

"Papa! You're home!" Lucia threw herself into Marcus' arms, and he suddenly felt overcome with emotion. He'd missed this. God, how he had missed this!

"Lucia!" he said thickly, past the lump in his throat. "I thought you'd still be at the Bannered Mare." He hugged her tight. _My little girl…_was all he could think.

"I brought her home the day before yesterday, my Thane," Lydia explained, crossing over to him and taking his backpack from him. "Her room was all finished, and there was no reason she shouldn't get settled in as soon as possible."

Marcus threw her a grateful look. "Thank you, Lydia," was all he said, and his Housecarl beamed in response. "This is Benor, from Morthal," he introduced. "He helped me with Ustengrav—" Marcus found he couldn't finish. Lydia raised an eyebrow.

"Uthgerd?" she asked quietly.

"Not now," Marcus said, throwing a glance down at Lucia. "Later."

"Lucia, why don't you show your Papa around?" Lydia suggested. "He hasn't seen the house since before the workmen were here. I'll see to your guest, my Thane."

"Come and see my room, Papa!" Lucia urged him, tugging on his hand and dragging him to the back of the house.

"Name's Benor," the man from Morthal grinned, extending his hand. "I didn't know Marcus had a little girl. He never mentioned her."

"It's a new thing," Lydia murmured, taking his hand and shaking it. "I'm still getting used to her myself."

Lucia prattled on about all the wonderful things in her room, then shyly invited him to take anything from her trunk that she had collected. "You've already done so much for me, Papa," she said. "It's the least I can do."

"Don't you worry about that," Marcus said unsteadily. God, she was cute! Her dress was still dirty – he doubted the grime would ever come out – but her face and hands were clean, and her hair had been washed and combed. At least Lydia had seen to that. But the child needed new clothes, and unfortunately that meant Belethor's general store. No wonder she was still wearing the same dress she'd worn on the street. He didn't think Lydia wanted to go back to the sleazy Breton's establishment any more than he did. Still, it was the only place he would be able to find anything for Lucia to wear, unless he wanted to go all the way down to Riverwood. He had to do that anyway, but Lucia needed something clean and new now.

As they emerged from Lucia's room, Marcus took a look around the ground floor of Breezehome. It was small, there was no doubt about that. He didn't think there was much more than five hundred square feet, if that, on this level. A small dining and living area were here, along with a fireplace and cooking area which he had redesigned to set against the side wall instead of being in the middle of the room, as it had been when Proventus had first showed him the house.

No stove, no oven, and no refrigeration. No modern amenities at all, in fact. A small room beyond the eating area led back to a tiny privy which was probably the definition of "water closet". There was no indoor plumbing. The privy led straight down into the sewers under Whiterun, where it probably emptied into the stream that rushed to join the White River to the east of the city. He made a mental note not to wade through the stream, if he could help it.

Upstairs, as Lucia guided him around, was a small room set aside for Lydia, a sort of loft area, and then his master suite, which took up nearly half of the available space upstairs. No bathrooms up here either, he noted, and the warmth of the fire pit below was funneled through a chimney area at one side of the room. Small, but certainly cozy.

A trunk was set against one wall, and Marcus saw it was empty. He unloaded the dragon bones and scales he'd been lugging around since he and Benor left Hjaalmarch.

"What are those, Papa?" Lucia asked, wide-eyed. So Marcus sat down in the chair nearby, pulled her into his lap and told her the story of how he and Benor had fought and killed the dragon, and how he had taken its bones and scales, as well as its soul. Lucia snuggled up against him.

"You're the best papa in the world," she whispered. In a little while, her even breathing told him she was fast asleep. It was already dark outside, he realized, though he didn't think it was that late.

Carefully, so as not to waken her, he rose and carried her down the stairs to her room, laying her gently in her bed, and covering her over with her blanket.

"She finally fell asleep?" Lydia whispered from the doorway. Marcus nodded. Lydia gave a soft chuckle. "She's hardly slept at all since I brought her home, my Thane. She kept asking when you would return. I think she didn't want to miss it."

"Thanks for taking such good care of her, Lydia," he said quietly. "Where's Benor?"

"Heading down to the Bannered Mare to rent a room for the night," Lydia said. "He mentioned you had to go to Riverwood in the morning. Something about the Horn not being there?"

Marcus nodded, scowling, but Lydia knew it wasn't directed at her. He motioned for her to precede him into the living room and sit by the fire. When they were settled, Marcus told her all that had happened, including Uthgerd's death.

"Oh no!" Lydia exclaimed in dismay. "Does Ulfberth-?"

"I told them," Marcus said. "I stopped there first before we came home. They didn't blame me."

"But you still think it was your fault," Lydia said astutely.

"Of course it was my fault!" Marcus exclaimed, then lowered his voice, remembering the child who slept in the other room not far away. "I should never have asked her to go with me," he said miserably. "She'd still be alive, otherwise."

"And you would be dead, my Thane," Lydia said baldly.

"What?"

"If you had gone into that vampire lair alone, you would be dead now," his Housecarl repeated, honesty making her voice sound harsher than it was. "You were in no way prepared for what you found there. Experienced warriors would have thought twice before going in, and they wouldn't have gone in alone, or even with just one other person. They would have gone into a place like that in force. You don't mess around with vampires."

Marcus hung his head. Every word she said was true. He'd been a complete and utter fool, and it had cost Uthgerd her life.

"But you're also a hero, my Thane," Lydia said. Surprised, Marcus looked up at her. "You saved the entire town of Morthal from becoming blood-slaves to a cult of vampires," she went on. "And while you might not have used the best tactics – and yes, Uthgerd paid for that with her life – you nevertheless killed a vampire lord of legend. People will be talking about that for decades to come."

"I'm not so sure I want people talking about me," Marcus muttered. "Not when I fuck up like that, I don't." He raised his eyes again. "Sorry for the cuss word, Lydia. Uthgerd—" He swallowed. "Uthgerd told me it wasn't proper to swear like that in front of a lady. I forgot. I'm sorry."

"Thank you for that, my Thane," Lydia said simply. "I didn't think it was my place to say anything before, but it _did_ bother me."

"Then you should have said something," he told her firmly. "And I really need to watch my mouth now that Lucia's here. Thanks for looking after her, by the way," he continued. "This isn't going to be a permanent thing, you know, you being stuck here with her. I'm going to find someone to stay with her when I need you to come with me on a quest."

Lydia took a deep breath. "My Thane," she began, "as your Housecarl, I am sworn to protect you, and all you own, with my life if necessary. That includes the most precious thing you have right now – your little girl. I've spent the last three days in Lucia's company, and I've been wondering why I've been so blind to her before now. She's smart, funny, compassionate, and the most loveable child I've known. I'm very glad you've taken her in, and given her a chance to grow and become somebody. She might never have had the chance if you hadn't."

"What are you saying, Lydia?" Marcus demanded. "Don't you _want _to go out on adventures with me?"

"Of course I do!" Lydia smirked. "What Housecarl to the Dragonborn wouldn't? But Lucia needs stability right now. It's something she hasn't had in her life. As the Dragonborn, you're not always going to be able to stay with her, and it would be impossible for you to take her with you. This is her home now, and I'm content to stay here with her, unless and until you move to another house, and have another Housecarl look after her for you."

"I've only got the one house, and the one Housecarl, Lydia," Marcus said wryly. "Just how many do you think I'm entitled to?" He chuckled, as if the very idea were ludicrous.

But Lydia looked at him soberly and said, "More than you think." She got up and retrieved a sealed parchment from a side table. Returning to her seat, she handed it to him. "This came for you after you left," she said. "The courier said it was for your hands only, but I tipped him enough to get him to leave it here for you. It's from the Jarl of Falkreath."

"Remind me again," Marcus said. "Where is Falkreath?"

"South of here, my Thane. Its capital city is also called Falkreath. Siddgeir is the Jarl."

Marcus opened the letter and quickly scanned its contents.

"_Marcus Dragonborn," _the letter began, "_Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Siddgeir, and I have the honor to be the Jarl of the proud and ancient city of Falkreath. The fame of your exploits across Skyrim has brought you to my attention. If you are interested in becoming a Thane of Falkreath Hold, I invite you to speak to me the next time you are in Falkreath. Aside from the honor that accrues to the title, my thanes are entitled to a personal Housecarl. I also can tell you privately that a choice parcel of land in Falkreath Hold would be available for your purchase should your services prove useful to me. I look forward to meeting you in person. I remain, Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath."_

Marcus set the letter down. "What an unctuous fop!" he exclaimed.

Lydia couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. "I've heard the Jarl of Falkreath described many ways," she chuckled, "but that's a new one!"

"He's obviously brown-nosing," Marcus said dismissively, tossing the letter into the fire. "He's trying to connect his name with the Dragonborn. There's no other reason why he would contact me like this."

"Would that be such a bad thing, my Thane?"

"I'm not going to be a boot-licking toady to every lord across Skyrim who wants to further their own agenda through me," he scowled. "He can go sit on a flagpole and rotate, as far as I'm concerned."

Lydia pursed her lips. Marcus knew that look. He sighed.

"Alright," he said finally. "Tell me why I should give a flying skeever's backside about the Jarl of Falkreath wanting to make me a Thane of his Hold."

Her Thane's colorful euphemisms were playing havoc with Lydia efforts to remain stoic and sensible. "Well, for one thing," she began slowly, so as not to break out into a grin, "as a Thane in that Hold, you'll be in a position to help more people."

"Yes, because that's worked out so well so far," he groused.

"Actually, it has," Lydia said. "You helped Amren get his ancestral sword back, remember? You helped Severio Pelagia bring his crops in a few weeks ago, before that early frost, which would have killed them before he could harvest them. You recovered Andurs' amulet for him at the Hall of the Dead, got Mikael to leave Carlotta alone and adopted Lucia. You've made the roads around here safer to travel by ridding the area of all the bandits that Jarl Balgruuf hasn't had the men to spare for. And now you've helped the people of Hjaalmarch by taking out a cavern full of vampires." This last was said just a bit wistfully, as if Lydia still wished she could have been there.

"Okay, I get it," Marcus sighed. "I've really had a wonderful life."

"Well, I don't know about that," Lydia said, "but you can take this for what it's worth, my Thane: the people of Whiterun look up to you as a Hero, because you're the Dragonborn. It doesn't matter to them that you're Imperial, not Nord. What matters is that they trust you. They feel better just knowing you're there, somewhere nearby, whether it's here at Breezehome, somewhere in the city, or out on the roads, patrolling the Hold. Just knowing that you're out there gives them a sense of security that there is someone who will fight for them, even when their Jarls can't…or won't."

Lydia finished speaking and waited for her Thane to say something. Finally, drawing a resigned breath, Marcus spoke.

"So you think I should go see this Jarl Siddgeir, then?"

"It's not for me to say, my Thane," Lydia replied. "It's your decision."

"I'll have to think about it," Marcus said. "You've made some good points, Lydia. Thank you for putting it into perspective for me."

"Not at all, my Thane," she replied. "Now, I'll get some supper for you. You must be hungry after traveling all day."

As she busied herself putting a meal together, Marcus remembered the other note he'd received. He pulled it out of his belt pouch and began to read.

"_Dragonborn, you caused a bit of stir in Hjaalmarch when you demonstrated the power of your Thu'um. Not everyone is anxious for the return of the Dragonborn. I, for one, desire to see you grow and develop your talents. Skyrim needs a true hero these days._

"_You should direct your attention to Dead Men's Respite. I understand it holds a mysterious source of power that can only be unlocked by the Dragonborn. Sincerely, A Friend."_

"A bit of stir in Hjaalmarch?" Marcus muttered. But only he and Benor were present when he Shouted at the dragon. Was Benor playing a prank on him? No, that couldn't be right, since Benor – by his own admission – could neither read nor write. Then again, there had been a time when Marcus was convinced this entire new world was some elaborate hoax being perpetrated on him. So who could this mysterious friend be? And where in Skyrim was Dead Men's Respite?

Marcus pulled out his map and pored over it as Lydia served up his evening meal. It took some time before he finally found it, in a valley along the river southwest of Morthal.

_Crap,_ he thought. _I was just up there!_

Still, it was practically guaranteed by this mysterious 'friend' that there was another Shout there. He'd found one in Ustengrav, down in its deepest depths. _Feim_, was the Word, and he still wasn't sure he wanted to use his one and only dragon soul to unlock its meaning. Master Wulfgar had told him he would always have the choice of which Word to unlock first. He'd also learned from the Greybeards that the Word he'd learned in Shroud Hearth Barrow, _kaan_, was part of a Shout to calm animals. At this rate, he was going to have an entire dictionary of Shouts without nearly enough souls to unlock them!

"I'm just going to have to kill a few more dragons," he murmured.

"What's that, my Thane?" Lydia asked.

"Nothing," he muttered. "I'm going to stay up and read for a bit, Lydia," he told her as she cleared away the remains of the meal. "I won't need anything else tonight."

"As you wish, my Thane," she smiled. "I'll say good-night then."

Wiping down the table with a cloth, she shook it out over the fireplace before hanging it on a hook nearby to dry. Mounting the stairs, she disappeared into her room.

Something had changed with her, Marcus realized. She wasn't mooning after him the way she'd done before he left for Morthal. There was no awkwardness now, or barely concealed clinginess. She had apparently accepted her role as his Housecarl with no other strings or suppositions attached. It was a relief, really. He hadn't exactly been dreading coming home, but he did wonder if he needed to say anything to Lydia about the way he'd treated her before.

The answer to that was clearly 'no'. She was still there to help and advise him, and help him navigate his way around Skyrim. She would look after his child, his home and his property, and seemed content to do so. They could remain on friendly terms while still being Thane and Housecarl, and the relief he felt over this was comforting.

Deciding to skip the book reading for tonight – although volume three of _Brief History of the Empire_ beckoned – Marcus snuffed out the candles, banked the fire in the fireplace, made sure the door was locked and retired for the night. As he settled into the sleeping furs, he said a prayer to whatever Divines this world had for Uthgerd's soul, that she would be welcomed into the afterlife of her choice. It was more than he'd been given.

* * *

><p>Morning dawned bright and early, as mornings usually do. Marcus woke feeling better than he had for some time, but he still would gladly have killed for a cup of coffee. It was good to sleep in his own bed, he thought. He still missed Lynne terribly, and wondered – not for the first time – if it all wasn't just some horrible mistake, and that they would still be together in Heaven when he died.<p>

Marcus shook his head to clear it. He couldn't think about that now. He had intended to head to Riverwood today, but after his homecoming last night, he decided to spend the day at home with Lucia, and get her properly outfitted, as befit the daughter of the Thane of Whiterun.

He got up and got dressed, hesitating over whether to don his armor. He was at home, in Whiterun. What could possibly go wrong? But Lydia's earlier words of caution made him heave an exasperated sigh and he struggled into the Nordic armor, which didn't seem as heavy as it used to. Perhaps Lydia was right, and he was becoming accustomed to its weight.

Downstairs, Lucia was already up.

"Good morning, Papa!" she exclaimed upon seeing him. She ran over and gave him a bear-cub hug and he hugged her back, kissing the top of her head. She was still wearing the same grimy green dress.

"Good morning to you, _chica_," he smiled.

"What does that word mean?" she asked.

"It means 'little girl' where I come from," he explained. "It's used as a term of endearment between a parent and a child."

"Oh!" Lucia giggled happily, then her face grew serious. "Are you going to be leaving again today, Papa?" she asked.

"Who said that?" Marcus queried.

"Lydia said she thought you had to go to Riverwood today," Lucia explained, sitting down at the table as Lydia served up breakfast.

Marcus looked at his Housecarl, who shrugged. "I thought that was your intention, my Thane," she said.

"Maybe it was yesterday," Marcus said slowly, "but I think I need to stay home today and spend the day with my daughter."

Lucia's eyes lit up and she wriggled with delight in her seat. "Yay!" she cried.

"I'll take her with me down to the market and get her some new clothes," Marcus told Lydia in a low voice. "I guess you weren't too keen about visiting the general store?" He left the question hanging with a sly grin.

"Ugh!" Lydia snorted. "That man makes my skin crawl," she hissed, low enough that Lucia couldn't hear her.

Marcus chuckled. "Thought not," he grinned. "I also need to talk to Benor. I promised him we'd go to Riverwood, but it's not going to happen today. I need to let him know."

An hour later, Marcus and Lucia headed into the market district. At the Bannered Mare, he met up with Benor and explained his intention to stay in Whiterun for the day.

"No problem," said Benor, cheerfully. "I haven't been here in a while, and there's a lot to do. I'll catch up with you later."

At Belethor's, Marcus picked out several dresses and smallclothes for Lucia, as well as several pairs of shoes. Lucia didn't like how they pinched her feet, but Marcus insisted she needed to start wearing them. He also bought her a new doll, which she latched onto immediately, crooning and cuddling it, and picked up two lutes, one for himself and one for Lucia. The child grew very excited over the prospect of learning how to make music of her own.

Throughout the transactions, Marcus kept a stern eye on Belethor, who looked as though he desperately wanted to make some kind of snide comment. The glares Marcus shot at him, coupled with the growing reputation of the Dragonborn, kept the slimy Breton's mouth shut except where business was concerned.

Then it was home again so Lucia could change into one of her new dresses. Marcus gave the old green one to Lydia with a whispered, "Burn this!"

Later that day, Marcus and Lucia climbed the steps up to Dragonsreach, where the Thane of Whiterun presented his daughter to the court. Lucia stared wide-eyed at everything, and lost her voice completely when the Jarl spoke kindly to her, only nodded and bobbing curtseys in response. In her entire, short, hard life, she had never imagined she would ever see the inside of the Jarl's palace.

The Jarl's children seemed singularly unimpressed with the Thane's daughter. The girl, Dagny, sniffed and turned up her nose completely, uncaring how rude she was being. Nelkir, only year younger, and looking very little like his siblings, merely commented, "Huh! Another wanderer here to lick my father's boots. Good job," before turning his back on Lucia and her father. Only the eldest, Frothar said kindly, "Don't pay them any mind. They're just children. Say, do you know how to fight?"

Lucia shrank back and Marcus put a protective arm around her. "No, Frothar, she doesn't."

"Aww, too bad," the boy said. "Well, see ya!" He took off after his brother and sister.

"Papa?" Lucia whispered. "I don't think I want to play with them."

"Sweetheart, I don't blame you," Marcus assured her.

The court mage, Farengar, was surprisingly kind to Lucia, which went a long way towards restoring Marcus' opinion of the man. The wizard directed most of his questions to Lucia, rather than to her father, and drew the little girl out of her shell. After a solid half-hour of conversation, the Nord confided in the Dragonborn, "She's got a good head on her shoulders. She's intelligent and curious, and that means she'll be able to learn pretty much anything she wants to learn. She's a delightful change from my usual pupils," he added, with a scathing look thrown out into the main hall, where Dagny and Frothar were arguing again.

"So, little Lucia," Farengar said to the child, "do you think you'd like a career in magic?"

Lucia considered this carefully. "I'm not sure, Master Farengar," she said honestly. "I'm only eight years old, and there's a lot to learn about magic. I think I really want to learn more about music right now. Papa bought me a lute and he said he'd teach me to play it."

Farengar looked faintly disappointed, but he covered it well. "Of course you should pursue what interests you," he agreed. "And your Papa is a good man to help you with that," here he nodded towards Marcus. "But if you ever decide you want to learn more about magic, you should go to the College at Winterhold."

"Thank you, Master Farengar!" Lucia smiled. "I'll remember that!"

"Thank _you_," Marcus told the mage sincerely.

"Not at all," Farengar smiled. "Despite what most people think, and despite the examples running around here, I actually _like_ children."

As they headed back to Breezehome, three children rushed past them in the Wind District, just outside the Temple to Kynareth. One of them, the boy, stopped short and turned back.

"Lucia?" he exclaimed.

"Hey Lars," she smiled shyly. "It's me."

"Lucia, I can't believe it! You look so nice!" Well, the boy would never win points for diplomacy, Marcus thought wryly, but his daughter didn't seem to mind.

"Thanks!"

"We're playing tag," Lars Battle-Born told her. "Do you want to play with us?"

Lucia looked up at Marcus. "Can I, Papa?" she asked.

"_May_ I," he corrected gently.

"May I, then?"

"Sure, go on and have fun," he smiled. Lucia hugged him, then took off at a run after her playmates. Marcus watched them go and smiled. So, she didn't have to rub shoulders with the Jarl's kids. That was okay by him. They were the stereotypical rich man's kids if he ever saw them. Frothar was nice enough, but even _he_ seemed a bit too obsessed with fighting, and there was no way he wanted his Lucia exposed to that.

"Ugh!" Lydia exclaimed when he returned to Breezehome and told her of his trip to Dragonsreach with his daughter. "Those children are the worst-behaved in all of Whiterun, I'm sure of it! I'm glad you're not going to let her play there."

"Well, I wouldn't say that I _won't _let her play there," Marcus qualified. "If Lucia really wanted to go up there, I wouldn't stop her. But I certainly don't want their bad habits to rub off on her. And that older boy, Frothar seemed way too focused on fighting."

"It's all those three do all day long," Lydia said. "Fight with each other, that is. I don't know what's gotten into them lately. They used to get along so well. And that Nelkir! The things he says!"

Marcus' curiosity was piqued now. "What kind of things?"

Lydia compressed her lips. "It's better not to get involved, my Thane," she advised. "It's the Jarl's business, not ours."

"You've kind of gone too far to stop now, Lydia," he said sternly.

Lydia looked unhappy, but relented. "I know Jarl Balgruuf is worried about his younger son," she finally said. "But he's not the kind of father you seem to be. You just come to it naturally. You've only really been back for a day, and yet you've taken your daughter out and spent time with her, even though there are places you need to be and things you need to do. You've taken the time to _be_ with her. I don't think Jarl Balgruuf knows how to do that," she finished.

"It's called 'parenting', Lydia," Marcus said. "If you're going to bring children into the world, or take on the responsibilities of a child by adopting, you don't just do it when it's convenient for you and forget about it when it's not."

Lydia nodded. "I know, my Thane," she said. "That's why I understand why you wanted me to stay behind and look after Lucia until you could return. I admit I was a bit resentful at first, but I realized that this was something that was important to you, that you _trusted_ me with this task. And if it's important to you, then as your Housecarl, it _should _be important to me."

Marcus knew in that moment that any fear he had that Lydia would fall in love with him were finally laid to rest. They could go on from here as Thane and Housecarl, the way it should be. He gave her a nod and a smile. "Thank you for realizing what this means to me. Maybe someday, I'll be able to tell you why. And maybe I'll just have to have a talk with the Jarl about his children," he mused. "Maybe all the man needs are a few pointers on how to be more involved with his childrens' lives."

Lydia snorted. "Good luck with that one, my Thane!"

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: No, Lydia has lost none of her attitude. That's what I love about her. She's come to terms with her role in the Dragonborn's life, and she's okay with that. Don't worry about her. Good things are in store for those who wait. Next up, Marcus and Benor head to Riverwood to catch a thief, and Benor finds out that there's a reason why the dragons with names are harder to kill. And Marcus' talk with the Jarl about his children leads to darker and more disturbing trouble than he could have imagined.]<em>


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Marcus and Benor stayed an extra day in Whiterun, which made a certain little girl extremely happy. The two men had intended to sell off the armor, weapons and other items they'd picked up out of Ustengrav, but with Adrianne and Ulfberth in mourning, they'd had to wait.

Belethor was willing to purchase some of their goods, but even his coffers had its limits. Arcadia, at the alchemy shop, was willing to take some of the potions Marcus had found that he knew he would never use; the ones which restored magicka and enhanced certain schools of magic were chief among those.

Marcus also made another "trip up the hill", as he called it, to find out from Farengar exactly how to tell whether a soul gem was filled or not, and how to determine what kind of enchantment lay upon a specific item. This led to a tutorial on how to use the arcane enchanter's table in his quarters, and before Marcus knew it, he had successfully laid a frost damage enchantment on the steel dagger he wore at his belt. It wasn't a strong enchantment, but Farengar assured him that if he applied himself and worked at it that in time his enchantments would become much stronger.

Personally, Marcus didn't feel like taking the time to go through those kinds of hoops when he could just purchase an enchanted weapon or find one in a barrow somewhere. He said nothing of this to the court mage, however, still being grateful to the man for his kindness to his daughter.

"You must remember, however," Farengar said as Marcus was preparing to leave, "that once you enchant a weapon, it takes much greater skill to keep it sharp. The amount of damage you'll be able to do will never get better unless you become a better smith."

_Good to know,_ Marcus thought, as he nodded his thanks and returned home. He'd wondered why the Axe of Whiterun didn't seem to be doing as much damage as it used to, no matter how much honing he did to it. Perhaps it was time to retire it and get something better; something that wasn't enchanted, so he'd always be able to keep it sharp.

"Marcus!" a woman called as his hand was on the door-latch. He looked around and saw Adrianne motioning to him to come over.

"Hello, Adrianne," he greeted her. "How are you two doing?"

"Ulfberth would like to speak with you," she said quietly. He could see her eyes were still red from crying.

"I don't want to intrude—"

"You're not," she managed to smile. "My husband told me to ask you to come see him, if I saw you."

"I didn't think you were open yet," Marcus said.

"We're not," Adrianne said, shaking her head. "Tomorrow, most likely. I can't take too much time away—" She broke off, and Marcus patted her shoulder.

"He's inside?"

Unable to answer, Adrianne nodded and fled to her forge. Marcus took a deep breath and went inside.

Ulfberth was sitting in a chair behind the counter. He looked up as Marcus came in, and a faint smile crossed his face. "I see Adrianne found you," he rumbled.

Unsure what to do, Marcus hesitated by the door until the big Nord motioned him over. "Wanted you to have this," he said without preamble, handing over a large, steel greatsword. Uthgerd's sword, Marcus realized.

"Ulfberth," he began, "I—I can't take this! It belongs to you now!"

"And I'm giving it to you, Marcus," the War-Bear said. "She'd want you to have it. My fighting days are long over. Yours are just beginning. Use it well." With that, Ulfberth turned and went into the back room, closing the door behind him.

Stunned, Marcus stood there for a long moment, fingering the hilt and gently sweeping a hand down the finely-honed blade. Tucking it under his arm, he left the shop. As he turned, he saw Adrianne at the corner, smiling tremulously.

Marcus straightened and bowed to her formally from the waist. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you both."

* * *

><p>"So this is Riverwood, eh?" Benor commented. "Doesn't look like much."<p>

"It's not, really," Marcus grinned, "but after Helgen it seemed like New York City."

"Where's that?" Benor asked. "I don't think I've ever heard of that place."

"It's….a long way from here," Marcus said. "Off the map, in fact. Look! There's the Sleeping Giant!"

_Way to go, Marcus,_ he thought wryly to himself. _Nothing screams 'you're not from around here' like mentioning a place no one's heard of before._

They headed on into the now-familiar Inn; at least, it was familiar to Marcus. By his own admission, Benor had never been here before. Sven was in his usual post at one end of the room and nodded his greeting to Marcus. Orgnar was still behind the bar and it appeared Delphine had returned from her "trip up north", because she was over at the alchemy lab in the corner. She greeted the two men and said, "What can I get for you?"

Marcus looked at Benor, who shrugged and nodded for him to proceed. Clearing his throat, Marcus sighed and said, "I know this is going to sound silly, but I'd like to rent the 'attic room', please."

Delphine chuckled. "Attic room, eh? Well, as you can plainly see, we don't _have_ an attic room, but you're welcome to the one on the left. Make yourself at home." Still chuckling, she took his coin and went back to the alchemy lab.

_Someone is going to pay dearly for this,_ Marcus thought to himself, feeling like he'd just been sent on a snipe hunt. Benor wisely said nothing as Marcus marched over to the room on the left – the same room he'd stayed in the last time he was here with Tamsyn, he realized – and threw his pack down on the floor.

"What now?" Benor asked as he closed the door behind them.

"I don't know," Marcus grumbled. "Someone out there thinks they've just played the greatest joke in the world on the Dragonborn, and I have no idea who it is."

"Maybe the Greybeards know?" Benor suggested.

"If you're thinking they sent me on a wild goose chase, I think you're wrong," Marcus said drily, though he wouldn't put it past Master Borri to try something like that.

A tap sounded on the door, and instantly both men were on alert. Marcus loosened the greatsword where it hung in its new sheath on his back and nodded to Benor to open the door, but stay behind it. The Nord nodded and slowly opened the door.

It was Delphine. Marcus relaxed.

"Something you need, Delphine?" he asked.

The woman smiled cryptically and held out something to him. It was the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. "So _you're_ the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about. Who knew?" She grinned. "I think you're looking for this. And you can tell your friend behind the door not to try anything. He'll be dead before he gets a chance."

Benor rumbled, but Marcus motioned to him to "stand down" as he gingerly accepted the Horn from her.

"What do you want, Delphine?" Marcus demanded. "And how did you get this?" There was a dangerous edge to his voice that no one could miss.

"We need to talk," was all the innkeeper said. "Follow me." She turned and left the room, not looking back to see if the two men followed her or not.

Marcus' inner dragon was rumbling dangerously by this time. Just who _was_ this woman, and what did she want from him? Did she retrieve the Horn herself, or have someone get it for her? How did she even know it would be there, or that he would be going after it?

Delphine crossed the Inn and entered another room on the other side, near the alchemy lab. Once inside, she waited for Marcus and Benor to catch up to her. She paused by a large, standing wardrobe at the far end of the room.

"Close the door," she said shortly. Benor shut it behind him. "Good," Delphine said quietly. "Now we can talk. Come with me." She opened the wardrobe and used a key to turn a hidden latch inside. The back panel of the closet slid completely to one side, revealing stairs that led down under the inn.

"Whoa," Benor breathed.

Following Delphine down the stairs, they emerged into a large room with its own alchemical lab and arcane enchanter, lined with bookshelves, weapon racks and chests full of supplies. A bale of straw sat in one corner near a practice dummy.

_Okay, I need a place like this at Breezehome,_ Marcus thought. _I just need to figure out how to put one in!_

Delphine rounded a center table which had a map, a dagger and a couple of books laid out on it. The significance of the dagger was not lost on either man. Delphine was clearly prepared to defend herself if either or both of them proved hostile to her. Judging from the weaponry lying around, it would be foolish to underestimate her abilities.

"Alright, we're here," he growled at her. "What's all this about?"

Delphine gave him a curiously searching look before replying. "The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn," she said. "I hope they're right."

Marcus was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that she had the Horn the entire time. "You're the one who took the Horn?" he asked. Not the smoothest opening line, he cringed inwardly, but Delphine didn't seem to take notice.

"Surprised?" she asked, giving a slight smile. "I guess I'm getting pretty good at my 'harmless innkeeper' act."

"Well, you're certainly not what I was expecting," Marcus said. Just exactly what he _did_ expect, he really wasn't sure, but it certainly wasn't a fifty-something Breton innkeeper. It only further served to prove that he couldn't afford to take anything, or anyone, at face value.

"Good," Delphine said with a satisfied smirk. "The whole point of being in hiding is to appear to be someone you're not."

"Okay, so why all the cloak-and-dagger?" Marcus drawled.

Delphine's face grew serious…deadly serious. "You can't be too careful," she said. "Thalmor spies are everywhere."

Thalmor. Those guys again. So _that's_ where this was all leading. "What do you want with me?" Marcus was proud of himself for keeping his voice neutral. Before he lost his temper or burned any bridges behind him, he wanted to know what she wanted.

"I didn't go to all this trouble on a whim," Delphine said. "I needed to make sure it wasn't a Thalmor trap. I'm _not_ your enemy. I already gave you the horn. I'm actually trying to help you. I just need you to hear me out."

"Go on," Marcus said evenly. "I'm listening."

Delphine seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as if she had just crossed one hurdle.

"Like I said in my note, I've heard that you might be Dragonborn. I'm part of a group that's been looking for you... well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really _are_ Dragonborn, that is. Before I tell you any more, I need to make sure I can trust you."

"And how do we know we can trust _you_?" Benor rumbled.

"If you don't trust me, you were a fool to walk in here in the first place," Delphine snapped.

"Why did you take the Horn in the first place?" Marcus asked, forestalling a potential argument. The last thing he wanted to be was the middleman here. It was time to start getting some real answers.

"I knew the Greybeards would send you there if they thought you were Dragonborn," Delphine said smugly. "They're nothing if not predictable. When you showed up here, I knew you were the one the Greybeards sent, and not some Thalmor plant."

So she had some reason to want to avoid the Thalmor. It was the third time she'd mentioned them in as many minutes. "Why are the Thalmor after you?"

"We're very old enemies," she replied, a shadow crossing her face. "And if my suspicions are correct, they might have something to do with the dragons returning. But that isn't important right now. What is important is that you might be Dragonborn."

Something about this whole thing wasn't sitting quite right, Marcus realized. He tried to remember what Tamsyn had said about the return of the dragons in the game, but he'd been angry at the time – okay, perhaps 'incensed' would be a better word – and he hadn't really paid attention. He didn't think the Thalmor had anything to do with the dragons, but he couldn't remember for certain.

"Why are you looking for the Dragonborn?" he asked Delphine now. Aside from wanting to use him for her own agenda, he thought, whatever that might be. He was getting tired of people thinking he would simply be at their beck and call. Balgruuf was the exception so far. He'd asked nothing more from Marcus than he was prepared to give, and had been nothing but kindness itself to him.

"We remember what most don't - that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer. You're the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul. Can you do it?" she demanded now. "Can you devour a dragon's soul?"

_Who's 'we', Delphine? Have you got a mouse in your pocket?_

Aloud he simply said, "Yes, that's how I learned I was Dragonborn."

"Good," she said, crossing her arms and seeming satisfied with the answer. "And you'll get a chance to prove it to me soon enough.

In point of fact, Marcus thought privately, he didn't have to prove _anything_ to her. "So what is it you're not telling me?" he asked now.

"Dragons aren't just coming back; they're coming back to life. They weren't gone somewhere for all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need you to help me stop it."

Okay, so this was a more serious problem than just having to take out a few dragons. She had his attention now.

"You _do_ realize how crazy this all sounds?" he asked, in a last-ditch effort to maintain some form of skepticism.

"Ha. A few years ago, I said almost the same thing to a colleague of mine," Delphine said wryly. "Well, it turned out he was right and I was wrong."

"What makes you think the dragons are coming back to life?" Benor asked, concerned.

"I know they are," Delphine said firmly. "I've visited their ancient burial mounds and found them empty. And I've figured out where the next one will come back to life. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

There was still something Marcus couldn't figure out. "How did you figure out all this was happening?" he asked.

Delphine chuckled. "You should know. You got the map for me. The dragonstone you got for Farengar, remember? The dragonstone was a map of ancient dragon burial sites. I've looked at which ones are now empty. The pattern is pretty clear. It seems to be spreading from the southeast, down in the Jeralls near Riften. The one at Kynesgrove is next if the pattern holds." She gave Marcus a shrewd look and added, "That was pretty clever of you, getting the Stone from the barrow before you even knew what it was. How did you manage that one?"

"I…uh…had help," Marcus prevaricated. Nope. There was no easy way to explain Tamsyn to a woman who looked as though she didn't believe in mysticism or magic.

Delphine, thankfully, let it pass. "I need to get into my traveling gear," she said. "If you gentlemen will kindly turn your backs for a moment?"

"Shouldn't we wait for you upstairs?" Benor asked, going red in the face.

"I'm not risking you two losing your courage and bolting on me," Delphine snapped. "Your backs, if you please."

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, Marcus turned his back and Benor did the same. They faced the wall which held the weapon racks. Marcus' inner dragon was now in full tirade mode. How dare she question his courage? She demanded they trust her completely, but gave little reason for them to do so, and in return didn't trust them any further than she could spit!

"Wow!" Benor exclaimed. "That's a nice Orkish blade!" Trust Benor to be easily distracted.

"Do you like it?" Delphine said.

"Yeah, that's a really fine weapon!"

"Take it, then," Delphine said generously. "You may need it where we're going."

Marcus grinned and nodded at Benor's hesitation, and noticed the blade next to the Orkish greatsword.

"You have a dai-katana here," Marcus murmured, suitably impressed.

"You recognize it?" Delphine said, not even trying to hide the surprise in her voice.

"Yeah, that's a beautiful sword," Marcus approved. "I'll bet it's as sharp as a razor, too."

"It will cut through three mannequins in one stroke," Delphine said proudly. "I'd be honored if you'd take it with you. It gets little use sitting up there in the rack."

"I'm not really trained in single-handed weapons," Marcus protested.

"We have a long way to go," Delphine said. "There will be plenty of time to give you some pointers. You can turn around now."

She was dressed in leather armor with a pauldron on her left shoulder. A katana similar to the one on the wall hung at her side.

Delphine gathered up a few more supplies from her trunk in the corner, then turned to lead the way back upstairs, expecting the two men to simply follow her. Benor did, but Marcus held back. One book caught his eye, _The Book of the Dragonborn._ He knew that book; he even owned a copy himself. It was the first book he'd picked up in Helgen and stashed in Tamsyn's pack. She'd given it to him the following day, telling him he might want to read it. He hadn't. It lay forgotten in his new bookshelf at home. The other book seemed more promising: _The Rise and Fall of the Blades._ Perhaps he might find out a bit more about this mysterious Delphine from the books she read. She'd also left behind the map of the dragon burial mounds. Feeling it might be of use, Marcus folded it up carefully and tucked it into his belt pouch. The book about the Blades he put in his pack. He only felt the slightest twinge of guilt over taking it.

His eyes caught the dai-katana hanging on the rack. "Dammit," he swore softly, unable to resist. She _had _offered it to him, after all. He took it down and fastened it around his waist.

Upstairs, Delphine was taking her leave from Orgnar, giving him instructions about the inn until she could return.

Once outside, Delphine said, "We can all go to Kynesgrove together, or split up. It's your call."

"I have something I need to do first," Marcus said, remembering the Horn and his promise to return it.

Delphine sighed exasperatedly. "Look, I can't hang around forever! I thought you were serious about this! What am I supposed to do if the dragon _does_ come back to life and you're not there?"

Marcus, by this time, was more than fed up at her cavalier attitude. "Take notes," he said shortly, and turned on his heel, heading south out of Riverwood.

"Did I miss something?" Benor asked. "I thought _you_ were the Dragonborn."

"Yeah, I know," Marcus muttered. "She's a nut-job, that's for sure. But if she knows anything about the dragons returning, maybe we should humor her for a while."

"So, does that mean we're going after her?" Benor asked.

"No, not quite yet," the Dragonborn replied, still heading south. "I have to return something to the Greybeards."

* * *

><p><em>Never again!<em> Benor thought to himself. He felt sure his teeth were still rattling in their gums. Never again would he accompany the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. It wasn't as if the Greybeards were unkind. Quite the opposite; they barely noticed him. But all the Shouting they did made his ears ring, even though he crouched in a corner by the front door and pressed both hands over them. He should have just stepped outside, despite the raging snowstorm, but even then, he wasn't sure it would have made a difference.

Marcus, however, seemed unfazed by the thundering voices. When three of the Greybeards left the main hall, Marcus remained in conversation with the one who had the knot in his beard. Benor couldn't hear what was being said, because his ears were still ringing, but Marcus seemed pleased.

After a short time, the Dragonborn returned to where Benor waited for him.

"L-t's –o," he said.

"WHAT?" Benor shouted, unaware of how loud his voice rang through the vast halls of High Hrothgar. Knot-Beard turned and glared at him.

"O-, 'f-r'gt," Marcus grinned. He handed Benor a red bottle and motioned for him to drink up.

"IF THIS ISN'T MEAD, YOU OWE ME ONE!" Benor boomed out, then drank the potion. Gradually, the ringing in his ears subsided, and the ache in his head went away. Marcus was still looking at him, thoroughly amused. "WHAT? Uh, I mean, what?" Benor said in a more normal voice as he realized just how loud he'd been.

"I said I forgot," Marcus replied. "I'm sorry, Benor. I didn't realize they were going to do that, or I'd have asked you to step outside."

"Don't think it would've helped," Benor muttered, still shaking his head slightly to clear it. "We done here?"

"Yeah, I think so," Marcus said. "I managed to get Master Arngeir to tell me where I could find a new Shout, and it's practically on our way to Kynesgrove."

"Well, that's convenient!" Benor smiled. "Y'think Delphine would mind? She seemed pretty keen for us to get to Kynesgrove right away."

Marcus refrained from remarking that Delphine could stuff it. "Whether she minds or not, I'm not allowing her to run my life," he said firmly. "I don't know who she is yet, but I'm the Dragonborn, and learning these Words of Power take precedent over whatever little tasks she has planned for me."

"You're the boss," shrugged Benor. "Let's get moving."

They made the long trek down the Throat of the World and stayed the night at the Vilemyr Inn before setting out again in the morning for a place Arngeir had noted on Marcus' map.

"Northwind Summit," he'd told the Dragonborn. "We have felt the whisper of a Word from there."

But he wouldn't say which word. _I guess I'll find out when I get there,_ Marcus shrugged to himself.

They followed a trail that led north out of Ivarstead and switchbacked down the bluffs to a road that followed the southern edge of a vast, sunken caldera strewn with geysers. The smell of sulfur wafting on the cold breeze from the north smelled like a thousand Blue-Tip matches all lit at once, and Marcus found the further down the trail they went, the more his eyes stung and watered.

"Not a pleasant place here, that's for sure," Benor commented. Marcus chuckled. His friend certainly had a firm grasp on the obvious.

They joined the main road eventually and turned southeast again, passing by a small mining community called Darkwater Crossing. Marcus remembered Ralof telling his sister Gerdur that that was where the Imperials had set up their ambush for Ulfric Stormcloak. Was this where he'd actually come into Skyrim? Had his soul been thrown into an Imperial soldier in this area? And what of Tamsyn? How had the body of a young Breton girl ended up in the same ambush? He shook his head slightly. He would never know. Not that it really mattered anymore, of course. That had been months ago, and he'd come a long way since then.

It was still fairly early in the afternoon when they found the road that led south to Shor's Stone and Riften, a road that climbed back up out of the thermal plain. Marcus had no intention of going all the way to Shor's Stone, however. The trail he needed spurred off from the main road about a quarter of the way there and wormed its way up to the peak of Northwind Summit.

Another hour took them to the entrance of a mine, where the trail seemed to end. They were still nowhere near the summit.

"Well, where the hell did the road go?" Marcus asked rhetorically.

"Maybe we need to go through the mine," Benor suggested.

"Wouldn't that take us deeper into the mountain itself?" the Dragonborn asked.

"Never know 'til you try," his companion shrugged.

Sighing, Marcus unsheathed Uthgerd's greatsword, which he had taken to simply calling "Uthgerd" in memoriam, and led the way in. Abandoned mines like this were usually a haven for bandits…or worse.

In actuality, it wasn't that bad. A few skeletons still walked the tunnels, but they proved little challenge for two determined warriors and finely honed steel. Or in Benor's case, orichalcum. The greatsword swung much faster than the axe Marcus was used to, but he found he liked it better. Eventually, the tunnels led up and out of the mine and they found themselves near the top of the mountain. A flight of stairs hid the top from view, and instinctively Marcus crouched. Benor followed unquestioningly. They crept to the top of the stone steps and peered over.

Draped over the top of the Word Wall was a large, bronze-colored dragon. It was sleeping. Marcus had no idea if the dragon breathed flame or frost. The dragon they'd fought in Hjaalmarch had been a grayish-white color with black spines down its back. This one seemed to be all one uniform color with spikes all over its head and back.

"Be prepared for fire or frost," Marcus murmured, handing over some Resist potions he'd picked up at Arcadia's before he left. "I have no idea what it's going to breathe." Benor took the potions and nodded.

"Ready when you are," he muttered.

Marcus crept a little closer, to make sure he would be able to hit with his bow, but the dragon's senses were clearly better than he anticipated. It woke up and instantly launched itself into the sky, wheeling around searching for whatever had disturbed it. Catching sight of the two men on the stairs, it shrieked its challenge in a column of fire that withered the leaves on the snowberry bushes around them.

Marcus and Benor tumbled separate ways. This was their favored tactic by now. It worked on most animals, such as bears and lone wolves, and seemed to do pretty well against dragons, too.

Bows first, to weaken it, then swords when it landed. Bows again when it jumped back into the sky, and swords again when it landed. Shout at it when it hovered overhead to breathe on them. Having already fought one dragon together, each man was feeling more comfortable matching his fighting style to complement his partner's. In no time, the dragon was down for good, and Marcus felt the rushing headiness as its soul entered him, struggling at first, but then consigned to a corner of his mind where he sifted through its experiences.

He approached the Word Wall; now that he was close enough, he could hear the chanting, see the glyphs ignite and felt the stream of knowledge pour into him. _Laas._ Life. What it meant, exactly, he didn't know, and wouldn't unless he used the dragon's soul to unlock its meaning.

As Benor went around gathering up any potential treasure from the ruined shacks in the area, Marcus considered the Words he'd discovered so far. _Kaan, _he knew meant Kyne, or Kynareth, the Goddess of the Sky, revered by the Greybeards. _Feim_ meant "fade", but how it worked in a Shout he didn't know. He had two souls he could use, on three Words. Knowing what _kaan_ belonged to, and not seeing a need to keep animals at bay…yet…Marcus decided to unlock the meanings of the other two words he'd learned so far.

Almost as if by instinct, he probed the deeper memories of the two souls he'd taken, still struggling in the back of his mind. At first he felt resistance, but inevitably they gave up the fight, as Mir Mul Nir had done, and Marcus felt the understanding sweep through him.

"_LAAS!" _ He intended to Shout it, but it came out as a whisper. Instantly, Benor lit up as his life-force illuminated him with a red glow. Further away, past the smelter that was up here, Marcus could see a small shape limned with red as a rabbit took off down the hill. Nearby, a fox was huddled in some bushes that had escaped the dragon's wrath. Interesting. The Shout lit up an aura of life-force all around a living thing. Marcus grinned. He could think of several useful applications for this particular Shout.

When it faded, and he felt his vital essence refill, Marcus tried the other Shout he'd unlocked.

"_FEIM!"_ This one came out as a full-fledged Shout, and Benor jumped, startled.

"Hey! What'd ya do that for?" He peered more closely at Marcus. "Hey! You're all transparent!" He stuck his hand through Marcus' mid-section.

Annoyed, Marcus swatted at his friend, saying, "Stop that!" but his hand passed right through Benor.

"Well, isn't that interesting?" he mused in wonder. He'd gone completely incorporeal, like a ghost! "I wonder if I could go through walls this way?" he chuckled.

"I wouldn't want to try it," Benor snorted. "How long does that last, anyway?"

"I'm not sure," Marcus said, as the world faded back in and he could see he was solid once more. "But I'm sure glad your hand wasn't still in me when I came out of that!"

"Eww," Benor scowled. "That's disgusting!"

"Think how I'd feel on _this_ end!" Marcus couldn't resist teasing. "The Greybeards told me that each Shout was made up of three words. They gave me all three of Unrelenting Force."

"That's the one you've been using to push with?" Benor questioned as they gathered up their packs.

"Yes, and they taught me one Word to Whirlwind Sprint, which allows me to run with incredible speed," Marcus explained. "Every word I learn makes the Shout that much more powerful. The stronger I get, the more powerful my Shouts will become."

"And all of this so you can save the world, right?" Benor asked. Marcus noticed right away there was a note of hope in Benor's voice; there was nothing sarcastic there at all. Benor truly believed in the stories of the Dragonborn, and wanted it to be true.

"I sincerely hope so, my friend," Marcus said, unsure if he could live up to such expectations. "I sincerely hope so."

They decided to push on through the night to get to Kynesgrove as quickly as possible. They'd already taken two days since talking with Delphine to go up to High Hrothgar and then to Northwind Summit. But as they descended the trail, which gave them an incredible view over the geyser plains, Marcus saw a familiar figure wheeling in the distance over a peak which jutted out from the middle of the volcanic tundra.

"Benor!" he called. "Do you see that?"

Benor peered into the gathering gloom of evening. "_Another_ dragon?!" he exclaimed. He looked over to the Dragonborn. "Whaddya think?" he asked. "Should we go after it?"

Marcus' inner dragon was trumpeting a challenge. "It's on our way," he said fiercely. "It may even be the one from Kynesgrove, if Delphine is right and it's already come back to life."

"And if it's not?" Benor asked dubiously.

"Then we take out one more dragon, and keep it from coming back," Marcus said with a feral grin.

"I like the way you think," Benor approved.

Bonestrewn Crest, the peak was called on his map, and Marcus realized once they got there that it was aptly named. The wolves and skeevers that attacked them along the way to the mountain stood little chance against two heavily armed and armored warriors, but they both gave the giants and mammoths a wide berth.

"No sane person goes up against a giant, or a mammoth, unless he wants to find out how high the sky is," Benor explained.

"That bad, huh?" Marcus asked.

"Trust me on this one," Benor said. "Friend of mine didn't believe me. The giant hit him so hard I never saw his body hit the ground. I think he might still be going up."

_Duly noted,_ Marcus thought to himself.

The dragon was a fire-breather, like the one at Northwind Summit, and between them, Marcus and Benor made short work of it. The Word Wall at the top of the peak gave him _fo._ "Frost," Marcus murmured. He now had a soul to use to unlock _kaan, _if he chose, but he decided he would rather breathe frost.

_Sure would have been useful to know this Shout _before _I had to fight the dragon!_ he thought wryly.

It was definitely getting easier to kill the dragons, thought, he mused with satisfaction as he picked over its remains.

"No more bones!" Benor groaned when Marcus pulled three more off the carcass.

"I swear this is the last I'll ask you to carry," Marcus promised. "As soon as I collect enough, I'll make you something from them, I promise!"

Grumbling, Benor took the bones and pushed them – very tightly – into his already near-capacity backpack.

"Anything good in the chest?" the big Nord asked the Dragonborn.

"I don't think so," Marcus said, taking another look. "I think that's – wait a minute, what's this?"

He pulled out a large, roundish, faceted stone of iridescent white, about the size of a soccer ball. It gleamed in the starlight with an internal glow all its own.

"_A new hand touches the Beacon,"_ a female Voice intoned.

"Oh, crap," Marcus muttered.

"_Listen, mortal," _the Voice continued. _"Hear me and obey. A foul darkness has seeped into my temple. A darkness that you will destroy! Return my Beacon to my temple at Kilkreath, so that my Light may return to the world!"_

Benor looked at Marcus as he stood there with the Beacon in his hand. "You get to carry it," was all he said.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: I haven't forgotten about my teaser from last chapter. It's just that my characters seem to have minds of their own which direction the story should go. Kynesgrove is definitely next, and Marcus' talk with Jarl Balgruuf after that. Anyway, thank you for staying with me!]<em>


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Kynesgrove was one of those little villages that epitomized "wide spot in the road." Aside from the mine and the inn, there wasn't much to the place. As Benor and Marcus approached the outskirts, however, a woman came charging down the hill toward them.

"No! Get back!" she cried. "A dragon! A dragon's attacking!"

Marcus looked around. He could see nothing.

"Attacking?" he asked. "Where?"

"Well, not attacking, exactly," the woman said nervously. "Flying around the old dragon mound, up there!" She turned and pointed further up the hill beyond the inn. "I don't know what it's doing," she declared, "but I'm not sticking around to find out!" She took off running down the road.

Marcus peered through the darkness and thought he saw someone running in the direction the woman had pointed; someone in leather armor with a pauldron on the left shoulder. It looked as though Delphine had arrived not much before them.

"Come on," he told Benor, and they took off at a run up the hill, past the Braidwood Inn and the Steamscorch Mine. As they drew closer to the top of the hill, where lay the dragon mound, they saw torches flung on the ground near the bodies of several men and women in Stormcloak armor. The torches cast puddles of light around the mound; the darkness hid most of the carnage.

Suddenly, the ground trembled under their feet, a whooshing noise of flapping, leathery wings rushed through the air, and a huge, dark shape, blacker than night blotted out part of the starlit sky.

The clouds which had obscured the lesser moon, Secunda, chose that moment to slide past, and the world below was bathed in a silvery light, gleaming off the ebony scales of the great dragon Alduin, hovering in the air over the mound.

"Divines protect us!" Benor gasped. Marcus sent up a prayer of his own, to the God he believed in, and to any others who might be listening. He wouldn't have blamed Benor for backing out right now, but to the Nord's credit, he stood his ground.

Marcus moved forward, Benor right behind him, to come up behind Delphine, crouching not far away.

"Don't do anything yet," Delphine warned. "Let's see what it does first."

"_Sahloknir," _the great black dragon rumbled. _"Ziil gro dovah ulse!"_

Marcus could literally _see_ the percussion of the Shout Alduin aimed directly at the mound, which shook in response. Benor swore beneath his breath, but Marcus didn't catch what he said, because Alduin was speaking again.

"_SLEN TIID VO!"_ Alduin boomed, and the ground erupted, throwing out chunks of dirt, rocks and debris in a wide scatter pattern around the mound as a skeletal form clawed its way out of the dusty grave. The hairs on the back of Marcus' neck were standing at full attention, and his skin crawled as muscles and tissues reformed over bones wreathed in flames, in a sort of reverse soul-taking.

"_Alduin,thuri!"_ the newly-resurrected dragon said, _"Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?"_

And the great black dragon responded, _"Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir."_

_This is SO not right!_ Marcus thought. _I've GOT to stop this!_

Standing, he summoned all the power he could muster and Shouted up at Alduin with everything that was in him.

"_FUS RO DAH!" _His Shout was so intense Marcus actually saw spots swimming in his line of vision, and he felt as out of breath as if he had just run a five-minute-mile.

The Thu'um was a direct hit, but flowed around the great black dragon harmlessly. Appalled, Marcus scrambled back, subconsciously noting that Benor and Delphine did the same.

The Dragon God of Destruction looked down at him, as if noticing an ant crawling on the ground for the first time. And when he spoke, there was a tone of cruel amusement in his words.

"_Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi."_ When Marcus didn't respond, the dragon gave a rumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. "You do not even know our tongue, do you?" he sneered down at the man below him. "Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah!"

Marcus felt powerless, and rooted to the spot in fear. His Thu'um hadn't worked! It always worked before, why hadn't it here? And the overwhelming presence of the immortal creature hovering over him scared him more than he'd ever been scared since Helgen. There, he felt helpless and unable to defend himself. Here, he knew he'd learned skills, but what good would they do against a dragon that could brush off his Shouts as a man does a fly?

All the stories he'd read, all the movies he'd seen about dragons, had one common theme: a dragon's power to paralyze, to undermine one's confidence, to put fear into their prey. He was feeling all of that now. This was the creature that had ripped his wife away from him, in that place between his old world and this one. How could he possibly defeat a monster like that?

Alduin turned toward the other dragon, patiently waiting for his lord. _"Sahloknir, krii daar joorre."_

With that, the great black dragon flew off, confident his subordinate would be able to handle the puny mortals.

Marcus didn't know what "krii daar joorre" meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn't good.

The other dragon swiveled its head back to the humans arrayed in front of him and trumpeted.

"I am Sahloknir!" he cried. "Hear my Voice and despair!"

"Shout at it!" Benor yelled.

"I can't!" Marcus gasped, dodging to one side as Sahloknir snapped at him. "I'm all out of juice!"

"Then we have to do this the old-fashioned way," Benor called back. "Good! I was afraid I'd get bored!" The Orkish blade rang out and Benor charged in, moving to the dragon's right.

For several minutes the three mortals slashed at the dragon with vigor, and Marcus noted that as sharp as Uthgerd was, Benor's Orkish sword was having better effect. Delphine laid about her with her katana, causing grievous wounds that cut deep into the dragon's flanks. It seemed made for fighting dragons.

The dragon slammed his tail on the ground, causing minor quakes which made them stumble; he struck out with his wings to either side. Delphine found out quickly just how strong those wings were when she was knocked a good distance away, flat on her backside. To her credit, she did a kip-up and was on her feet again almost immediately.

Sahloknir, however, had no intention of staying grounded. "I see that mortals have become arrogant while I slept," he roared as he took to the air. "My Voice has been silent for too long!"

Marcus switched to his bow and saw Benor and Delphine do the same. Delphine's steel arrows only _plinked_ off the dragon's tough scales, however. Benor ran over to him while the dragon wheeled in the sky.

"How many Dwarven arrows you got?" he asked breathlessly.

"Just a handful," Marcus said.

"Me too," Benor replied. "Here, take mine," he said, handing them over. "You're better with a bow than I am."

"What are you going to do?" Marcus asked.

"Wait for it to land!" his friend said, as if that was obvious. "Look out! He's coming back!"

They threw themselves apart, but Sahloknir's fire breath was strong and wide. It caught both of them, and Marcus felt his exposed skin sizzle.

"Gah!" he heard Benor cry out as the man rolled in the dirt to put the flames out.

"You okay?" he called.

"I'm fine," Benor shouted. "Just bring that son of a bitch down, alright?"

Ignoring the pain from his burns, Marcus brought the bow up and around to aim at the dragon, but Sahloknir's naturally dark hide made it difficult to see against the night sky; difficult, but not impossible, as the dragon passed in front of Secunda.

Letting the arrow fly ahead of his target, Marcus heard with satisfaction an angry roar as the dragon flew right into his shot.

"He's coming back for a strafing run!" Delphine warned, but Marcus was ready. He felt his Thu'um finally recharge, and figured this would be as good a time as any to test the Word he'd learned at Bonestrewn Crest.

With eyesight better than a human's, it was far easier for Sahloknir to see the pitiful _joorre_ in the darkness than it was for them to see him. Still, the one his _thuri_ Alduin had called _Dovahkiin, _Dragonborn, had successfully caused him pain with his arrow, and Sahloknir felt it was time to teach the foolish mortal a lesson. Hovering over the man, he drew in his breath to Shout, and was stunned when the pathetic fool hit him first!

"_FO!"_

A column of frost swept over him, chilling him to the bone. So, there was more to this Dragonborn than he anticipated. Good. It would be a worthy battle then.

"Your Voice is strong…for a mortal," he mocked the Dragonborn, "but it is no match for mine. _YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

Once more, fire spewed forth from the gaping maw, but this time Marcus was able to get out of the way. He shot three more arrows in quick succession before Sahloknir pulled himself back up into the air. Each one sank in up to the fletching, and Sahloknir roared in fury and agony. Marcus made a mental note to try and find more of these arrows soon.

"It's too strong in the air!" Delphine called. "We need to bring it down to the ground!"

"I'm working on it!" Marcus yelled back. "I'm open to suggestion!"

"When it comes back around, hit it with everything you've got!" the woman cried, as much for his benefit as for Benor's and her own.

For his part, Benor was trying very hard to continue targeting it with his steel arrows. He knew they weren't penetrating, but he hoped to annoy the creature enough to bring it within easy reach of his fancy new Orkish greatsword. He got more than he bargained for as the dragon dropped out of the sky practically on top of him. Scrambling back, he narrowly avoided the claws that tore up the ground around him, but he didn't avoid the teeth.

_SNAP!_

The mighty jaws closed around Benor, shaking him and flinging the Nord away like a ragdoll.

"BENOR!" Marcus cried. He saw Delphine rush over to where the man lay unmoving and pull out several potions from her pack. He wanted to see if his friend would be alright, but he had other, more pressing concerns…such as the massive head swinging around to face him.

"My lord Alduin requires your death, Dovahkiin," Sahloknir sneered. "I am honored to oblige him."

"_FUS RO DAH!" _ Marcus roared, and was gratified to see Sahloknir stagger backward. Had he been a smaller opponent, Marcus felt, he might have gone flying across the mound. As it was, Sahloknir recovered too quickly for the Dragonborn's tastes and advanced again on his opponent who was once again "out of juice."

What happened next was pure instinct. To avoid those deadly jaws, Marcus leaped up onto Sahloknir's head and grabbed him with one hand by one of his protruding horns. It was the safest place away from those razor-sharp fangs. But now he had a problem: he couldn't wield Uthgerd one-handed. The sword was just too big. Flinging the bow aside and hanging on for dear life, he drew the katana at his side instead, stabbing down in fury again and again and again.

Akaviri steel, had he but known it, gave Marcus an edge over rock-hard dragon scales, slicing through them a hot knife through butter, and piercing vital arteries beneath.

Anguished, Sahloknir tried to shake the parasite off his head, but grimly Marcus held on, continuing to slash and stab, until finally, with a huge shudder, the great dragon settled to the dust once more. The soul flared out, and Marcus stood there, entranced until the last shreds of golden light faded and he leaped lightly down.

Benor sat up at that point, and asked groggily, "What did I miss?"

Laughing, and relieved his friend survived, Marcus came over and clapped him on the back.

"I—I can't believe it," Delphine murmured. "Gods above, you really _are_ Dragonborn!"

"Yeah," Marcus said quietly, "I really am."

"I guess I owe you some answers, don't I?" she admitted. "Go ahead. Anything you want to know. Nothing held back."

"Let's start with just exactly who are you?" the Dragonborn demanded.

"I'm one of the last members of the Blades," Delphine said with pride. "A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. For the last two hundred years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them."

Marcus remembered the book he'd taken from her room, _The Rise and Fall of the Blades._ Sounds like her organization had fallen on hard times. "The Blades?" he asked. "Who are they?"

"Exactly," Delphine said bitterly. "Nobody even remembers our name these days. We used to be known across Tamriel as the protectors of the Septim Emperors."

"Septim, as in Tiber Septim?" Marcus asked, remembering what he'd read in _Brief History of the Empire._

"The same," Delphine agreed. "Those days are long gone, though. For the last two hundred years, we've been searching for the next Dragonborn to guide and guard, as we are sworn to do. But we never found one. Until now."

_Oh great,_ he thought. _Another follower sworn to carry my burdens. _He wondered what Lydia would think about this. Somehow he had the feeling, however, that Delphine would balk at him asking her to carry heavy dragon bones around. She'd probably tell him to go to – what was the equivalent of Hell, here? Oh yeah, Oblivion, that was it.

"So what do you know about the dragons coming back?" he asked now.

"Not a damn thing," she said helplessly. "I was just as surprised as you to see that big black dragon here."

"I've seen that dragon before," he blurted out before he could stop himself. "The one that got away."

"Really?" Delphine looked up eagerly. "Where?"

"It was the one that attacked Helgen, when I—Ulfric escaped from the Imperials."

Delphine apparently didn't notice his near slip, and he breathed an inward sigh of relief. He still didn't trust her, didn't believe she was telling him _everything_ she knew. If she could keep secrets, so could he, starting with the fact that he already knew the dragon's name and that he was supposed to try and kill it. Well, he _had_ tried, only it hadn't worked out so well. Clearly, he wasn't strong enough yet.

"Interesting," Delphine muttered. "Same dragon….damn it!" She heaved a sigh of frustration. "We're blundering around in the dark here! We need to figure out who's behind it all!"

"Does there have to be anyone behind it?" Marcus asked. "What if they're doing it on their own?"

Delphine blinked at him. "That's ridiculous," she dismissed. "Dragons aren't that smart."

_Lady, you couldn't be more wrong,_ he thought. Fine, let her live in her dream world. That didn't mean he was going to be her lackey.

"So what's our next move?" Benor asked, eagerly. Marcus stared at his friend. He was _swallowing_ this line of bull? He rolled his eyes.

"The first thing we need to do is figure out who's behind the dragons," Delphine said, pacing back and forth. "The Thalmor are our best lead. If they aren't involved, they'll know who is."

Marcus snorted impatiently. "What makes you think the Thalmor are bringing dragons back?" he demanded. The whole idea was ludicrous.

Delphine shrugged. "Nothing solid. Yet. But my gut tells me it can't be anybody else."

"How do you figure that?" Marcus asked, barely able to keep disdain out of his voice.

"Look," she said, exasperatedly, "the Empire had captured Ulfric, so the War was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are attacking everywhere, indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened; the Empire is weakened. Who else gains from that but the Thalmor?"

"Maybe they're just taking advantage of an unfortunate coincidence," Marcus argued.

"You can call it coincidence if you want," Delphine said in a hard voice. "I call it calculated planning."

Sighing, Marcus gave it up. The woman's streak of paranoia could pave a four-lane highway.

Benor looked as though he'd been turning it over in his mind. "So, we need to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons?" he asked.

"Yeah, got any ideas on how to manage that?" Marcus chimed in. He was proud of himself for not allowing a trace of sarcasm to leak through.

Delphine narrowed her eyes. "If we could get into the Thalmor Embassy…it's the center of their operations in Skyrim. The problem is that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach _me _a few things about paranoia."

_Not possible,_ Marcus' inner dragon snorted. For once he agreed.

"You're suggesting we create an international incident by breaking into the Thalmor Embassy?" Marcus queried.

"I'm not sure yet," Delphine muttered, still mulling things over in her mind. "I have a few ideas, but I'll need some time to pull things together." She appeared not to have noticed that her Dragonborn had serious reservations about this proposed plan of action. "Meet me back in Riverwood. If I'm not back when you get there, wait for me. I shouldn't be long."

She hefted her pack onto her shoulders and turned to go, throwing back over her shoulder, "Keep an eye on the sky. This is only going to get worse." And then she took off at a quick jog back down the trail.

"So now what?" Benor asked. "Do we head back to Riverwood?"

Marcus shook his head. "No," he replied. "I'm not letting Delphine ride roughshod over me. I've got other things I need to do. We'll head back to Whiterun first. Here, help me with these dragon bones and scales."

Benor rolled his eyes and groaned.

* * *

><p>Marcus parted company with Benor when they returned to Whiterun, after taking all the dragon bones and scales off his heavily-burdened friend. He insisted on giving the Nord a pouch of coin to get him back to Morthal safely, but there was really much more than enough for a carriage ride. Part of the coins they earned by selling off excess weapons, armor and miscellaneous items was in it as well.<p>

"I may need you again soon," he told Benor. "I don't want to find out you died in a skeever attack." He grinned to let his friend know he was only partly joking. The serious inference of the dangers of the road was not lost on Benor.

"I'll be careful," he said, clasping Marcus' hand. "You ever need my blade again, you just ask!"

The dragon bones and scales were lugged upstairs and stored carefully in his trunk. Marcus placed Uthgerd and the dai-katana In the rack by the front door. When he had carefully put away the items he intended to keep, Marcus was left with some enchanted jewelry and no idea how to identify what they did.

"Farengar could tell you," Lydia suggested.

So after giving Lucia a silver locket to keep just because he wanted to, Marcus took the rest up to Dragonsreach.

Farengar was only too happy to show him how to determine what enchantment lay on each piece of jewelry. Most of them were things he would never use anyway, like boosting magicka or schools of magic, but there were a few pieces he decided to hold onto. One, a gold and ruby amulet, gave him added resistance to fire.

_Could have used that yesterday,_ he thought wryly.

Another item was a silver and amethyst ring which Farengar told him was meant for thieves.

"What?" Marcus asked, raising an eyebrow. "You mean it was made for a thief?"

"Undoubtedly," the mage said. "This ring has a pickpocketing enchantment. It's worth rather a lot of money. Perhaps Belethor might have enough to compensate you for it, if you intend to sell it. I'm afraid I don't usually carry that much coinage on me."

"I'll have to think about it," Marcus said. "What about those fancy amulets there?" He pointed to two elaborately crafted necklaces he had found In two separate dragon hoards.

"Well, those are amulets dedicated to the Divines," Farengar told him. "That one with the double-headed axe is, of course, an Amulet to Talos. He's the hero-God of the Nords, and his worship is currently outlawed by the White-Gold Concordat which the Empire signed to end the Great War. It would be dangerous to wear it….openly." The sly smile on the wizard's face was not lost on Marcus.

"Any special powers about it?" Marcus asked, innocently slipping the necklace into his belt pouch.

"Funny you should ask that, Dragonborn," the mage dead-panned. "I've heard it said that it helps to enhance the Thu'um, though I don't know how true that is. Perhaps someone would be willing to undertake such research and report back with the results?"

"Someone might," Marcus grinned. "And the other one there?" He pointed to the gold and turquoise filigree pendant.

"Ah, that is an Amulet of Mara, goddess of love," Farengar said. "It's supposed to help boost the intensity of Restoration spells."

"Well, I probably won't be needing that one, then," Marcus said.

An odd look crossed the wizard's face that the Dragonborn completely missed. "You know, it never hurts to have the blessing of a Divine on your side," he said lightly. "And these Amulets are not easy to come by."

Marcus considered that. "You might be right," he said finally. "I'll just hang onto it for a while, then."

Several bits of jewelry exchanged hands, then, along with quite a few septims, and Marcus thanked Farengar for his time and knowledge and left the mage's quarters.

"Watch where you're going, fool!" a young voice piped up, and he stopped short before plowing into Nelkir.

It was on the tip of Marcus' tongue to say something before remembering this was the Jarl's son. Even so, the boy badly needed a lesson in manners. Giving the child an exaggerated bow of apology, to which Nelkir only sneered, Marcus spotted Jarl Balgruuf across the room, seated at the long table eating his midday meal.

_Time for that little talk,_ Marcus thought, and squaring his shoulders, he walked over to the Jarl and bowed.

"My lord, am I interrupting?"

"Not at all, Dragonborn!" Jarl Balgruuf smiled. "I'm delighted to see you! Sit down, please, and join me! Have you eaten?"

"Not since early this morning, my Jarl," Marcus said, seating himself. "Thank you." He helped himself to bread, meat, potatoes and carrots – his favorite vegetable – and one of the maids brought over a glass of clear crystal filled with red wine.

"You've been busy in my Hold, I understand, Dragonborn," Jarl Balgruuf smiled. "I'm grateful. The people here have taken you into their hearts."

"I'm the one who's grateful, Jarl Balgruuf," Marcus said. "When I came here a few short months ago I had nothing. I didn't even really know who I was." _Truer words were never spoken._ "Your people have accepted me as one of them. I've found a home and a purpose, and now, even a family."

"Yes," the Jarl said. "Your daughter is a delightful child. Very quiet and…well-mannered." A slight frown creased the Jarl's brow, and Marcus knew this could be the opening he was looking for to broach a delicate subject.

"In fact," Balgruuf continued, "I'm amazed that someone as young as you has proven to be such a good father. Almost as if you were born to it."

"I have a confession to make, my Jarl," Marcus hesitated. "I had a family, before I came to Skyrim. I had a wife and three children."

"Truly?" Jarl Balgruuf's eyebrows shot straight up to the circlet he wore. "You seem very young to have so many children, Dragonborn. Did something…happen to them?"

"I'm older than I look, my Jarl," Marcus said. "And yes… they…they died. I'd rather not talk about it right now, if that's alright. It's still very painful for me." It was as close to the truth as he dared to get. To all intents and purposes, Lynne, Kelly and his other children and grandchildren were lost to him. He would never have that again. He had Lucia now, though, and it helped with the pain somewhat. He would always love the family he lost; he was grateful for the family he'd gained.

"I understand, Dragonborn," Balgruuf said, sympathetically. "No wonder you took in the little beggar girl and made her your daughter. The fatherly instinct in you is strong." He sighed. "Stronger than in me, apparently," he confessed.

"Is there some trouble I can help with, my Jarl?" Marcus asked, as innocently as he could.

Balgruuf sighed again. "It's my youngest son, Nelkir," he said quietly, for Marcus' ears only. "He's a dark child. I don't know what to do with him. He was always a quiet lad, but lately…something has changed."

"Changed?" asked the Dragonborn. "In what way?"

"He's become more brooding," Balgruuf admitted. "Violent. He won't say a word to me, but I swear, I don't know how I upset him. If you could speak to him; draw out the truth. I would be immensely grateful."

"I can try, my Jarl," Marcus promised.

After luncheon, Marcus sought out Nelkir and found him upstairs, lurking around the expansive porch area where Hrongar and Proventus always took their meals. The boy appeared to be eavesdropping on the two courtiers' conversation.

"Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves, you know," he remarked, slipping up behind Nelkir and startling the child.

To cover his alarm, Nelkir resorted to insults.

"I could have my father flog you for that, you swine!"

Marcus refused to be buffaloed. "I doubt it," he said laconically. "From what I hear, you don't even talk to your father anymore."

"So the disgusting pig sent you to bother me, did he?" the boy snarled. "One day I'll tear his face apart so he can leave me alone!"

"That's not a nice way to talk about the man who's responsible for bringing you into this world," Marcus said evenly.

"My father doesn't know _anything_ about me," Nelkir snorted. A sly look crept over his face. "But I know about him. And about the war. More than he might think."

_Okay, so this is getting interesting,_ Marcus thought to himself. _This isn't just childhood rebellion talking. Someone's gotten to this kid._

He knew all about rebellious children. His son had been a terror growing up until a psychiatrist had diagnosed a chemical imbalance that affected the behavioral centers of his son's brain. Proper medication had calmed him enough to cope with everyday life. Such was not the case here, Marcus could tell. David's problems had manifested early in his life. Nelkir's seemed to have come upon him suddenly.

"Tell me what you think you know," Marcus prompted. "I'm the Dragonborn, you know, maybe I can help." _Might as well play that card. It couldn't hurt._

Nelkir gave a short, ugly laugh. "I know he still worships Talos," he proclaimed.

_Okay, that could be a problem if the Thalmor found out about it._ Nelkir might even be the one to divulge that tidbit.

"Go on," Marcus encouraged. "What else?"

"I know that he hates the Thalmor almost as much as the Stormcloaks do."

_Not really a big surprise there, except that Balgruuf's supposed to be neutral in the war so far._

"Anything else?" he asked, feigning boredom.

"He's afraid he'll get chased out of Whiterun," Nelkir declared, as though trying to impress Marcus now.

_Which could very well happen if a certain snot-nosed kid doesn't keep his mouth shut,_ Marcus' inner dragon rumbled. He liked Balgruuf, and didn't want to see him deposed.

"Those are all very interesting, but—"

"That's not all!" Nelkir said, desperately. "I know that he…that I'm…that I don't have the same mother as my brother and sister." This last was said hesitantly, as if the boy was embarrassed by his illegitimacy.

_Balgruuf, you sly dog, you._

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. "Just how did you find out all these so-called 'secrets' of yours?"

Nelkir's confidence was back. "This castle is old," he said. "_Real_ old. There's lots of places nobody's been in for a long time. Places where you can overhear things; see things." He gave a knowing nod. "And the Whispering Lady," he finished in a hushed voice.

_Ding._

"Whispering Lady?" Marcus asked, still maintaining his façade of boredom.

The boy shrugged. "She won't tell me her name. I've gotten good at listening to keyholes. At the door in the basement, I hear her talking to me. I thought I was caught, at first, but she started telling me even more secrets." His face fell. "But I can't open the door."

"Any particular door in the basement?" Marcus asked, but Nelkir seemed to realize he might already have said too much. He closed up.

"In the basement," he insisted. "Trust me, you'll see it. I bet she'll talk to you."

Marcus left the boy to his sneaking and returned to the main hall. Balgruuf was holding court, hearing the reports of the day and listening to any grievances the people of his Hold might have. Marcus didn't want to disturb the proceedings, so he circled around the hall and made his way down the stairs to the lower levels.

It took some time, but he knew the door to which Nelkir referred when he found it. The iron-bound wood was splattered with blood. Several bales of hay had been piled up in front of it, but a few had been pulled down. Probably by Nelkir, he mused, as the boy tried to get the door open. He tested the handle, but it was firmly locked.

"_Who is this at my door?"_ a sibilant female Voice whispered.

Oh crap, not again.

"Who are you?" he asked. _Answer a question with a question. Good one, Marcus._

"_I am Mephala," _the Voice said. "_Daedric Prince of Secrets. I have been seeking a Champion to unlock the source of my power hidden behind this door. The child has been an amusing instrument, but his powers are limited. You, however—" _Here the Voice practically crooned. _"You would be a worthy bearer of my Ebony Blade."_

"Ebony Blade?" Marcus perked up his ears. He'd heard of weapons and armor made of ebony, of course. Benor spoke at great length about the superiority of anything made with the material. But he was no fool. He'd already picked up one thing belonging to a Daedric Prince, and didn't feel right about leaving it lying around for anyone to mess with. He'd kept it with him, as cumbersome as it was.

_"You haven't returned my Beacon yet,"_ the other Voice in his mind reminded him.

"I'll get around to it," he muttered. "Keep your shirt on!"

Mephala chuckled in amusement. _"You are already touched by one Daedra, I see. What's one more? Come, open my door and receive my Blade of Power."_

"Maybe," Marcus prevaricated. "Depends on what it does."

There was a hint of irritation in the Voice that replied, _"It will draw out the life-force of your enemy when you strike them down. Surely such a Blade would be of much greater use in your hands, rather than locked away here."_

_If it sounds too good to be true…_ There had to be a catch somewhere, and Marcus was certain Mephala would omit that rather significant detail unless and until he opened the door. Deciding to play along for now, he asked, "Door's locked, in case you hadn't noticed, and I'm not that great with picks."

"_Talk to the boy," _the Daedra purred, certain she'd gotten her way. _"He knows where lies the key."_

The presence vanished, and Marcus considered his options. That this Blade of Mephala's was a powerful artifact was evidenced by the fact it had been hidden away here under Dragonsreach, and locked away behind an unpickable lock. He was certain the Daedra's influence was what was causing Nelkir's attitude problem. If the sword _was_ removed, the boy – and his brother and sister as well, perhaps – might just return to an innocent childhood.

The problem, he saw, was what to do with the sword afterward. No way did he want something like that anywhere near Lucia and Lydia. He could talk to Balgruuf about it, but just the fact that it had been sequestered here probably meant that no one was supposed to know about it.

Well, first things first. He should talk to the boy again and see if he knew about a key. If he could get the sword away from here now, he could figure out a safe place to stash it later. Not the best plan, but Nelkir and his siblings needed to come out from under the influence of Mephala just as soon as humanly possible.

Nelkir did indeed know about the key. There were, in fact, two of them.

"My father has one on him all the time," Nelkir said. "I've never been able to get it off him, and now I don't even want to go near that filthy pig."

"And the other?" Marcus said, clenching his fists to keep from backhanding the boy for his disrespect. _Daedric influence, remember? He doesn't really know what he's saying._

"That poor excuse for a court mage has it," Nelkir sneered. "You can probably just kill him and pick it off his body. I doubt anyone would even miss that jerk."

"I'll take that under consideration," Marcus said blandly. "You've been very helpful. Thank you." He made a mock bow from the waist, whose sarcasm was lost on the boy and left Dragonsreach, returning to Breezehome to think things over. He'd picked up several books in his travels, so far, and there was one in particular he wanted to scan through before he decided which course of action to take.

He found Lucia sitting at the dining table when he returned, looking miserable.

"Sweetheart, what's the matter?" he frowned, coming over to hug her.

Lucia sniffled. It was obvious she'd been crying, since there were tear-tracks down her cheeks.

"Braith is a big meanie," she pouted. "She keeps telling Lars and me what to do. I don't want to play with her anymore!"

_Oh boy,_ he thought. _Nothing worse than playground politics. Especially at this age._

"Then don't," Marcus told his daughter gently. "You don't have to play with anyone who tries to push you around."

Lucia looked up at him, and he could see her large brown eyes were filling with tears again. "But she says she'll beat me up if I don't!"

_Okay, that crossed the line._

"She's not going to beat you up," Marcus assured her, "because I'll make sure she doesn't."

"How?"

"I'll talk to Amren. He'll talk to Braith and set her straight."

"No, Papa, NO!" Lucia howled, throwing her arms around his neck.

Startled, Marcus put his arms around her and shifted so he was sitting on the bench with Lucia on his lap. He waited for her to calm down before asking gently, "Why don't you want me to talk to Braith's papa, little one?"

"Because Braith said if you did, she'd beat _you_ up, Papa!" Lucia sobbed. "I don't want her to hurt you! I love you!"

Marcus wasn't sure whether to laugh or choke up. The very idea of the ten-year-old Redguard girl beating on him was laughable. But he knew it was a very real fear for Lucia. And for the first time, she had said those three little words out loud. He knew then that she had accepted him completely as her very own papa. He hugged her tight.

"Listen, sweetheart," he said finally, "you know that I can fight and kill a dragon, right?"

Sniffling again, Lucia nodded.

"And you know that a dragon is bigger than Braith, right?"

Again, his daughter nodded.

"And, let's see, Braith doesn't know how to use a sword, or wear armor, and I do, so—"

"But she's bigger 'n me, Papa! I'm afraid of her!"

_Ah, now we come down to the nugget._

"Well, then, the best way to overcome your fear is to face it," he advised her.

"But I'm afraid she'll hurt me," Lucia said.

"She can't hurt you if she can't touch you," Marcus smiled.

"Huh?"

He stood then, and placed her gently on the floor. "Come on outside with me," he said, taking her by the hand.

For the rest of the afternoon, until Lydia called them in to supper, Marcus began teaching Lucia the basics of tae kwon do, guiding her through the exercises that would help her avoid a physical confrontation with the town bully.

_Farengar was right,_ he thought proudly._ Lucia _is_ a fast learner!_

"That was fun, Papa!" Lucia bubbled over the evening meal. "Can we do it again tomorrow?"

"Of course!" he smiled. "And on the days I can't be here, you keep practicing what I've taught you so it becomes second nature to you."

Lucia's brow furrowed a bit. "But what if Braith starts acting mean again tomorrow?"

Marcus shrugged. "Sometimes you just have to bide your time and play along, even when you don't want to, until the time is right to stand up for yourself."

"Like you're doing, Papa?" she asked. "I mean, Lars told me that you have to kill a big, bad dragon, but you haven't done it yet because you're getting yourself stronger."

Her insight stunned him. _Out of the mouths of babes,_ he thought. "Yes, sweetheart," he said pensively. "It's exactly like that."

* * *

><p><em>Wrong,<em> he thought. _This is so wrong! Why am I doing this?_

He was crouched in a corner of Farengar's private bedroom, just off his study, listening to the man snore, trying to screw up his courage enough to steal a key from the wizard's pocket.

_Because you've got an over-active Boy Scout gland,_ he answered himself.

He had brought a small sackful of jewelry and filled soul gems up to Dragonsreach just about the time Farengar was retiring to bed.

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in you using the enchanting table, Dragonborn," the mage had said, yawning. "But if you don't mind, I'm heading to bed."

So for the next hour or so, Marcus had worked on enchanting the rings and necklaces with the few enchantments he'd bothered to learn, waiting for the man in the next room to fall deeply asleep. The up-side of that was that he felt more confident about creating magically enhanced items. The down-side was that he had to sneak into Farengar's bedroom, where he was now, without either alerting the guards or waking up the man in the bed.

Carefully, he slipped on the ring which the wizard had told him had a pickpocket enchantment on it. Farengar always carried his keys in his right-hand pocket; it was something Marcus took note of earlier in the day when he asked to purchase a grand soul gem Farengar always kept locked away in a drawer in his desk.

It was just sheer good fortune that he was currently sleeping on his left side.

_I suppose I should be grateful he sleeps in his clothes,_ Marcus thought with a shudder. A naked Farengar was not an image he wanted burned onto his brain.

_Here we go._

One. Two. Three…and out. Marcus slipped his hand into the pocket and retrieved the solitary key not attached to the rest of the key ring. It was large, old and looked to be covered in blood or rust. He was sure it was the former.

As quietly as he could, he retreated from the room and closed the door. So far, so good. Now he had to get the sword out without anyone suspecting anything.

Irileth stood at the top of the hall at her post by Jarl Balgruuf's throne. Didn't that woman ever sleep? He nodded to her briefly, since it was impossible to get past her without her seeing him, and made his way to the kitchen area. From there it was a matter of sneaking past the servants to get to the door.

The book he'd read earlier in the evening confirmed what he'd feared. Mephala hadn't told him everything. Daedric Prince of Secrets she may have been, indeed, but _The Book of Daedra_ also said she was known as the Webspinner and Spider. Her spheres of influence extended to lies, sex, murder and treachery, especially where it concerned those who trusted you.

Armed with that ammunition, Marcus knew it was more important than ever to get the Ebony Blade out of Dragonsreach, as far away from the Jarl's children as possible. He only hoped they would return to what was normal for them once the sword was gone. Lydia had mentioned they used to be well-behaved. It was clear to him that the sword's influence had disrupted that.

He had also finally taken the time to read through parts of _The Book of the Dragonborn_, which Tamsyn had given to him all those months ago in Helgen. One passage in particular caught his eye.

"_Very few realize that being Dragonborn is not a simple matter of heredity – being the blessing of Akatosh Himself, it is beyond our understanding exactly how and why it is bestowed."_

Akatosh, Lydia had told him, was Chief of the Nine Divines ("Um, I mean Eight, my Thane") that presided over the realm of Nirn, the world in which he now lived. He was often depicted as a dragon, oddly enough, and known as the Dragon God of Time. And in a supreme stroke of irony, Alduin, the World-Eater, was said to be his first-born.

So, he was the Dragonborn, blessed by Akatosh, so the tales went. It stood to reason, then, that Akatosh Himself was somehow responsible for pulling Marcus from his own world into this one. If Tamsyn was correct, and he and Lynne had died in a car crash, then his soul had been brought here and placed in this body to become the Last Dragonborn.

But he still didn't understand how any of this could even exist, when it had all been just a game in his world.

The blood-smeared door stood in front of him. He pulled several more bales of hay away from it so he could get it open and unlocked it.

"_My Champion!_" the Voice of Mephala purred. _"Come and claim your reward! Wield it in my name, and we shall make glorious history together!"_

A piece of parchment lay next to a tachi-length katana sitting in a lacquered wooden stand, a _kake_. Marcus picked up the piece of paper.

"_Pay no attention to the mewlings of foolish mortals," _Mephala insisted. _"They fear what they do not understand."_

_Pay no attention to that man behind the screen, _Marcus thought sardonically. _Something here you don't want me to know?_ He was supremely glad Mephala couldn't read his thoughts.

"_She will once you claim the sword,"_ the other female Voice in his mind warned him. _"As long as you have it with you."_

_Noted,_ he thought. _And thanks for the warning._

He picked up the parchment and read it:

"_Admonition Against Ebony_

"_To anyone reading this: BEWARE THIS BLADE._

"_It is hoped that the only people having access to this room should be the Jarl of Whiterun and his trusted wizard. If anyone else is reading this, please understand the magnitude of your folly, turn around, and never even speak of this room or this blade to anyone._

"_It has corrupted and perverted the desires of great men and women. Yet its power is without equal – to kill while your victim smiles at you. Only a daedra most foul could have concocted such a malevolent and twisted weapon. But it appears that all who wield it end up with the crazed eyes of those wild men who roam the hills chattering with rabbits._

"_It is not to be trifled with. Not even the hottest fires of the Skyforge could melt it; indeed the coals themselves seemed to cool when it was placed within. We cannot destroy it, and we would not have it fall into the hands of our enemies. So we keep it, hidden, dark and deep within Dragonsreach, never to be used. Woe be to any who choose to take it."_

Well, that was pretty plain enough, Marcus thought. Colorful, but plain. If he took the Blade, he could save the Jarl's children – and possibly the Jarl himself – but he would endanger his own family. The Skyforge couldn't melt it. He wasn't strong enough to defeat Alduin yet, let alone go up against a Daedric Prince.

_Strength is measured in more than muscle,_ his inner dragon said.

True. There was strength of character, and while Marcus knew he had failings, love for his family and loyalty to his friends were two of his greatest strengths. Exactly the sort of things Mephala's blade would take from him, if he were a lesser man.

_Are you a lesser man?_ his dragon mocked him.

Scowling, Marcus let the note drop back onto the table.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm not. I'm the Dragonborn."

He took the Ebony Blade.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Whew! This was a long chapter, but there was a lot to put in here! I'm sure you've noticed by now that Marcus doesn't have a very high opinion of Delphine. He is a Dragonborn who will not be afraid to speak his mind, and will not just unquestioningly accept what she tells him as gospel.<em>

_And the Whispering Door quest, while one I've only done once in a play-through, was just begging to be inserted here. I took great liberties with the dialog here to make it a bit more realistic. I was disappointed with the game play, since you jump through hoops to get the sword and then…nothing. No repercussions, no side-effects; everyone goes on like nothing's happened, when this was supposed to be a sword from Hell. So I re-wrote it to fit my story. Sorry, Bethesda.]_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"_The reach and destructive nature of the Thalmor is known to many (author's note - in my family firsthand). They are not fools. They knew early on that the Blades were an enemy. So they hunted them throughout the Great War. Some were killed defending their Temples, others as they slept in their hideaways, alone. Some fought, some ran, some hid. But the Thalmor found them all._

"_There are those that say the Blades still exist around us, in hiding from the Thalmor. Waiting as they have done time and time again, for a Dragonborn to return. For one to protect, for one to guide them._

_-The Rise and Fall of the Blades"_

Marcus set the book down and rubbed his eyes. It was late, and the candle had burned low. Lydia was asleep in the back room, if her snoring was any indication, and downstairs Lucia was safely tucked away in Dreamland.

For two solid weeks he had stayed home, making further repairs to Breezehome, helping the people of Whiterun and waiting for the shoe to drop. It never did. Neither Farengar nor Jarl Balgruuf ever mentioned a missing key or sword. If Irileth suspected his involvement in the theft – _Let's call a spade a spade, Marcus – _she never said a word to her lord. If the Jarl had confronted him about it, he would have owned up to it, and would have presented his evidence and reasons for absconding with it. Quite honestly, by this time he was convinced that Farengar was probably too terrified of what Jarl Balgruuf might say if he confessed he'd lost his key.

There was another reason he remained in Whiterun. He was avoiding returning to Riverwood to find out what kind of scheme Delphine had concocted. He'd already told her breaking into the Thalmor Embassy was a bad idea; he didn't think he'd need to expound upon it. But he'd received a letter by courier this morning.

"_Dragonborn; expected your return before now. Time is wasting. Meet me as soon as you can. D."_

Damn her. She couldn't take avoidance for an answer, could she? So much for the passive approach. He'd have to go see her, he supposed, but not uninformed. He'd taken these last two weeks to catch up on some much-needed reading, to help him sort out what exactly was going on in Skyrim. He'd finished all four volumes of _Brief History of the Empire,_ but it had only taken him up to the end of the Third Age. _The Oblivion Crisis_ filled in some of the gaps, but _The Great War_ gave him the information he needed which was the background for the current crisis.

Marcus understood now many things he didn't before. Delphine was indeed justified in her fear of the Thalmor. If half the things the books told him were true, they really _were_ like Nazis, intent on world conquest. He leaned over to blow out the candle, and the Amulet of Talos shifted against his chest. He'd taken to wearing it after Farengar told him it might help fortify his Shouts. In point of fact, he'd discovered what it actually did was reduce the amount of time before he could Shout again; the delay seemed greatly reduced. So he wore it around his neck and kept it hidden under his tunic, buried beneath the Nordic carved armor. Lydia caught him slipping it over his head one morning and beamed at him.

_This doesn't mean I'm going to start worshipping Tiber Septim,_ he thought sourly.

As he lay there in the darkness, Marcus heard mutterings from the chest where he kept his dragon bones, and grinned to himself. Mephala had been awfully quiet since he'd laid down the law with her. At first, she had attempted to persuade him to kill Jarl Balgruuf and take over as Jarl of Whiterun. That wouldn't happen, he knew, for a number of reasons: first and foremost, he liked Balgruuf, and thought the man was doing a decent job as Jarl; second, he didn't want the job, he already had one; third, Balgruuf's guards – and certainly Irileth – would have killed him if he tried. So he told Mephala to "shut the fuck up, it's not going to happen."

Then Lucia had started acting up, refusing to do her chores, whining about having to wear shoes, and complaining that all the children in the town were "dumb" and she didn't want to play with them. Knowing exactly where this came from – and having anticipated it – Marcus went straight to the chest and pulled out the sword.

"_My Champion! At last you've come to me!" _Mephala crooned.

"Only to give you this message, Daedra," he snarled, "and I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. You leave my family alone. You leave the people of this city alone. You leave Skyrim alone. Got it? Go back to your slime-hole in Oblivion, or wherever the hell it is you are, and don't dare poke your thoughts out here again!"

"_YOU DARE TALK TO ME THAT WAY, YOU PUNY MORTAL!"_

"Yeah, I dare, bitch, because I'm the one holding your letter-opener, understand?" Marcus gritted out. "I'm the Dragonborn, and I'm the chosen of Akatosh, so I'm under _his_ protection. You don't like it? Take it up with the Big Guy. I get my orders from him! You give me any more trouble, and I'll be making a trip to the Red Mountain in Morrowind to chuck your little pig-sticker of power down its gullet!"

"_You wouldn't dare!"_ There was genuine fear in Mephala's thoughts. All her power was tied up in the Ebony Blade. How this mortal had discovered that, didn't bear thinking about.

He grinned again, and it was not a pleasant one. "Look inside my mind, sweetheart. If it worked for the One Ring, it'll work for you."

Mephala didn't answer. She let him think he'd won. She could be patient…mostly patient. He was mortal. He wouldn't live forever.

She'd been quiet after that, except for the occasional mutterings. Marcus knew that as long as it went no further than that, there was no reason to follow through on his threat. He also knew that to protect his family, he was fully prepared to do just that.

There was one positive result from this, however: Jarl Balgruuf thanked him profusely for speaking to his son.

"I don't know what you said to Nelkir," he told the Dragonborn, "and frankly, that's between the two of you, but he came to me yesterday and apologized for his rudeness to me. He even asked if we could play a game of Castles and Kings last night. He hasn't done that in months!"

Dagny and Frothar also seemed to be in better moods; they fought less, and Dagny seemed to have remembered whatever manners her late mother had taught her.

He'd take that trade-off.

Sighing now, Marcus realized he had no choice but to go see what Delphine had planned. It had nothing to do with whether or not the Thalmor were involved in the return of the dragons. He was already convinced they knew no more than Delphine did. But a part of him – the devious part he always tried to squash – was curious to know whether they might not have _other_ sensitive information stored there about potential plans to launch another campaign against the Empire. His research had strongly suggested that the Aldmeri Dominion wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than complete and total control of all of Tamriel.

That the Emperor, Titus Mede II, had bent the knee to the Dominion rankled more than a few people. The outlawing of Talos worship was a carefully plotted strategy to pit one faction – the Stormcloaks – against the Empire, causing rebellion and further weakening both Skyrim and the Empire. It seemed to Marcus that as long as Skyrim and the Empire were caught up in a Civil War, the Thalmor and the Dominion had time to rebuild the forces decimated by the Battle of the Red Ring toward the end of the Great War.

It was madness. He didn't know if Ulfric Stormcloak realized this or if he was just too focused on becoming the head man here in Skyrim. He shouldn't be fighting against the Empire; he should be joining them to fight against the Dominion. The Empire had fought the Dominion to a standstill. With all the Provinces united together, they could beat them once and for all. The Thalmor knew this. They played the long game well, because being mer, they had all the time in the world to wait out humans who would only live for fifty years or so before the generation pool would flush itself out.

Blowing out another sigh and turning on his side, Marcus grumbled to himself as he accepted the fact he'd have to make a trip to Riverwood sooner, rather than later. But he would go alone. If this turned out to be as dangerous as he thought it was going to be, he didn't want to involve anyone else.

* * *

><p>Marcus was beginning to think he was spending almost as much time in Riverwood as he was in Whiterun. Entering the Sleeping Giant once more, he saw Delphine emerge from the shadows at the back of the room. She was still wearing her leather armor.<p>

"Good, you finally made it," she said without preamble. "Come with me." She led him back down to her secret room, and once all the doors were closed she said, "I've figured out how we're going to get you into the Thalmor Embassy."

"I haven't said I'd do it yet," Marcus frowned.

Delphine's eyes narrowed. "I hope that's a joke. We need to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons coming back. This is the only way we'll know for sure."

Marcus sighed. "Fine," he shrugged. "Have it your way. What are your plans?"

Delphine's lips thinned out to the point where they were almost nonexistent. He could tell she was biting back some scathing comment, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say, _"Don't hold back, sister. Anything you've got to say, say it." _But he didn't, and instead just widened his eyes at her innocently.

Deciding to let it go for now, Delphine gave a short nod and said, "The Thalmor Ambassador, Elenwen, regularly gives parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. I can get you into one of those parties. Once you're inside the Embassy, you get away and find Elenwen's secret files. I have a contact inside the Embassy. He's not up for this kind of high-risk mission, but he can help you. His name's Malborn. Wood elf, plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. You can trust him. I'll get word for him to meet you in Solitude, at the Winking Skeever - you know it?"

"No," said Marcus. "I've never been to Solitude before, but don't worry, I'll find it."

"Good enough," Delphine nodded. "While you're doing that, I'll work on getting you an invitation to Elenwen's little party. Meet me at the Solitude stables after you've arranged things with Malborn. Any questions?"

_Just one. Why do I keep hearing the theme to 'Mission: Impossible' in my head?_

Aloud he merely told her he had no further questions and they parted.

_She couldn't trust this in a letter?_ he grumbled to himself. _Four hours to get here, and four hours back to Whiterun to catch the carriage to Solitude, and I've spent all of fifteen minutes in her company!_

In her secret room, Delphine was taking out her aggression on her practice dummy. Damn the man! Didn't he understand she was trying to help him? Why was he being so stubborn? And why did he seem to think everything was a joke? If he didn't start taking things more seriously, he was going to end up dead! The first Dragonborn in two centuries, and he was going to get himself killed because he insisted he knew better than she did about the Thalmor! About dragons! About _everything!_

In rage, she swung the dai-katana around so viciously she decapitated her practice dummy. It _thunked _softly to the floor and she stood there, breathing hard, staring at it. _Damn him!_

A noise near the doorway made her whirl around, sword at the ready. Orgnar stood there, both hands raised. He gulped before speaking.

"I…uh..I'll come back later."

* * *

><p>The natural stone arch was the first thing Marcus noticed about Solitude. The entire city lay sprawled along the top of the rock formation that spanned the Karth River Delta which emptied into the Sea of Ghosts. The carriage had traveled all night to get him here, and the rosy pink of the rising sun glinted off tile roofs and grey stone walls. The windmill jutted up above the surrounding wall, twirling lazily in the chilly breeze that blew off the sea to the north.<p>

As they approached the stable area, a young boy in rags came out to grab the horse's harness while Marcus clambered down off the cart. He was traveling light, though he still wore his armor. He'd decided to bring the Ebony Blade with him, more as a precaution against leaving it behind rather than out of any desire to feed its unholy appetite.

"Blaise!" Bjorlam called. "Could you bring a bag of oats for Gerduin here? She's been trying to graze for the last half mile."

"Sure thing, Bjorlam!" the boy said, running back to the barn. He was halfway back to the cart, lugging the heavy sack when a woman called after him.

"Blaise!" She sounded irritated.

The boy hesitated, then sighed. "Yes, Katla?" he called, half turning around.

"You were supposed to weed the garden this morning!" Katla scowled.

"I know, I know," Blaise protested, "but Geimund told me to take care of the goats first, and then Bjorlam needed oats—"

"Is Geimund feeding you?" Katla demanded.

"No, ma'am," the boy muttered.

"Is Bjorlam giving you a place to sleep at night?"

Blaise shook his head. "No, ma'am," he said again.

Katla seemed to notice Marcus for the first time, standing quietly nearby, watching the proceedings. "What are _you_ looking at?" she scowled.

"Nothing much," he said cryptically.

Katla couldn't figure out if she'd been insulted or not, and decided he wasn't worth bothering about. "You get that garden weeded right away," she threw at Blaise before flouncing back into the house.

Marcus took the heavy sack from the boy's hands and walked with him back to the cart. Bjorlam handed down Gerduin's feed-bag with an apologetic smile. "Bad day, boy?" he asked kindly.

"Yeah," Blaise muttered. "And it's just starting, too." He quickly scooped a measure of oats into the bag. Bjorlam handed him a few coins and flipped him another on the sly. Blaise caught it and put it away quickly, looking back to see if Katla were still outside watching. When he went to grab the sack, Marcus shooed him away and said, "I've got this for you. Just show me where it goes."

"Gee, thanks, mister!" the boy said, a faint smile creasing his grubby features. He was actually quite a handsome lad, Marcus thought, if he'd been cleaned up a bit. By now he was starting to recognize racial features, and with his red hair and the roundness of his face, Marcus strongly suspected Blaise was Breton.

"Is Katla a relative of yours?" he asked, conversationally.

"No," Blaise said. "She just-well, she gives me a place to live."

"Doesn't sound too bad," Marcus said, watching the boy carefully.

"I hate it!" Blaise exclaimed. "Everyone feels sorry for me, so they don't treat me too bad, but..."

"Go on."

"Both my parents were in the Legion," the Breton boy said quietly. "There was... an ambush. Katla said she could feed me if I could make myself useful. I take care of the animals, run errands, that kind of thing. I guess it could be worse. But... I'm sick of sleeping outside with the horses!. I want a real home, real parents. Not... this."

He showed Marcus a shelf inside the barn where the grain was stored, and Marcus hauled it up onto the ledge for him. When the boy had his back turned, Marcus slipped a few coins next to the sack where he was sure Blaise would find them.

_You can do better than that,_ his inner dragon criticized. Yes, he could. But it would have to wait for a little bit, until he could talk to Lucia. She was part of this, too. Besides, he had an Embassy to infiltrate. His dragon subsided.

Marcus made his way up the long hill approaching the main gate of Solitude. He had to admit, it was an impressive-looking edifice.

"Here to join the Legion?" one of the guards asked.

"Um…no, not really," Marcus replied, shaking his head.

"Well, if you change your mind, head on up to Castle Dour and talk to Legate Rikke," the guard advised. "If not, better keep your nose clean while you're here, or you'll end up like Roggvir!"

Resisting the temptation to ask who the unfortunate Roggvir was, Marcus assured the man he'd watch his step and headed across the outer bailey to the city gate.

He hadn't expected to walk right into an execution. Vivid flashes of his own near-miss with the headsman's axe swam before his eyes and he turned away before he could witness the final cut. It didn't keep his ears from hearing it, though. He felt sick, and hurried away from the main gate, searching with his eyes for the Winking Skeever. It wasn't far away, and he pushed through the doors and made his way to the bar.

"Mead, please," he told the barkeeper.

"Comin' right up," the man said. "You okay?"

"Never liked public executions," Marcus muttered.

"Ah," the big man behind the bar said sympathetically. "That's a bad business there." He presented a tankard to the Dragonborn.

"What did he do?" Marcus asked bleakly, after drinking half the tankard in one draught.

"He opened the main gate," the barkeeper said, scowling, "and let that traitor, Ulfric Stormcloak escape after he murdered High King Torygg!"

There was little Marcus could say to that. He tried not to think of the sound of the axe slicing through flesh and bone, _thunking _into the wood block beneath it. Taking a deep breath to steady his stomach, he glanced around the inn. It was quiet and empty, or almost so. It seemed most of the townsfolk had been outside, witness to the execution. A pretty blonde Nord girl was tuning her lute before she began singing.

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart,

I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes…"

Really? There was a song about him? How had he not heard this before? She had a very pleasant voice, so he turned to listen more closely.

"With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art,

Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes!"

Well, that much was certainly true, at least about being able to Shout.

"It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes,

Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes!

For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows,

You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn comes."

_But no pressure or anything,_ he grinned to himself as the song ended. He toyed with the idea of introducing himself to the pretty young bard, and wondered what her reaction would be, but decided against it. He had to keep a low profile while he was here until his mission was complete.

Back in a shadowy corner, he caught a glimpse of a figure seated at a table…a figure with pointed ears. That had to be Malborn. He casually got up from the bar and made his way over. Yep, he was definitely a wood elf. He sat down.

"Can I help you?" the elf asked, raising an eyebrow.

Marcus had thought long and hard about how he would introduce himself to his contact without blowing anyone's cover. He had no idea if there were spies listening in or not. If he believed Delphine, they were probably backed up against the wall right now, painted to look like stonework.

"Our mutual friend sent me," he murmured quietly.

Malborn's eyebrows went straight up into his hairline. "_You're_ who she picked?" he asked incredulously. "I hope she knows what she's doing."

There was definitely some kind of insult in there, but Marcus decided to let it pass.

"Fine," Malborn said exasperatedly. "Here's the deal: I can smuggle some of your things into the Embassy. Give me what you can't live without, and I'll make sure to get it in. Don't even think about bringing anything else in with you. The Thalmor take security _very _seriously."

"What kinds of things?" Marcus asked. He hadn't anticipated this.

Malborn snorted. "Are you _sure_ you've done this sort of thing before?" he asked disparagingly. "I mean your weapons, armor, potions, that sort of thing. Leave everything else behind. I mean it!"

Delphine didn't warn him about this. He was going to have a long talk with her when he saw her.

"Give me a few minutes," he said. "I'll need to get the armor off. I'm not disrobing out here."

"I can't wait around all day," Malborn hissed. "I need to get back before I'm missed!"

"Just give me five minutes!" Marcus snapped. "I'll be right back!"

It was closer to ten, because of a couple of stubborn buckles, but eventually he emerged from an unoccupied room wearing his tunic and leggings with a pair of "borrowed" shoes he found in a cupboard. They pinched a bit, and he felt some sympathy for Lucia, who wasn't used to wearing shoes, but they would have to do.

Malborn was fidgeting frantically by the time he returned with his gear.

"Finally!" he breathed, grabbing Marcus' equipment and practically bolting for the door. "I'll make sure this gets in. You make sure you do _your_ part!"

He sincerely hoped that would not be the last he'd ever see his armor again, and – oh, fuck! He'd had to turn over the Blade of Mephala! _Son of a bitch!_

Marcus sprinted for the door, intending to call Malborn back, but halfway there he stopped.

_Wait a moment,_ his inner dragon was smirking. _Wouldn't the Thalmor Embassy be a far better resting place for that sword than Breezehome?_

Ohhh….that was tempting. That was sooooo tempting! But his over-active Boy Scout gland kicked in and reminded him that there were quite a few innocent Imperials, Jarls and dignitaries who trusted, or at least tried to get along with the Thalmor while they occupied Skyrim. He couldn't have it on his conscience if harm came to any of them.

_Dammitall!_

He ran for the door again, but while he waged an inner war with his moral integrity, Malborn had disappeared. Blowing out a sigh of exasperation, Marcus did the only thing he could do: he returned to the stables to find Delphine. He hoped she was there waiting for him.

* * *

><p>Tsavani went into the pantry to retrieve another sack full of potatoes. The afternoon was wearing on, and there was still so much to do. Malborn had come in earlier and put some things away in the larder. She'd seen him go in, but he hadn't said anything to her. She hoped there was more Moon Sugar; she hadn't intended to sneak so much, and now she was almost too short to be able to bake the sweet rolls for tonight's embassy dinner. Elenwen would be furious with her if she knew.<p>

She poked around the shelves and barrels in the pantry, searching for any trace of extra Moon Sugar. There _had _to be some here somewhere!

That stinking Thalmor bitch! Tsavani hated her mistress with every fiber of her being. So what if she cooked her tail off? So what if the boiled crème treats were the finest in the land? Did the Ambassador ever _once_ give her a compliment? No! And she never would. She would look down that long, narrow nose of hers – so ugly in comparison to the beautiful, wide noses of her people – and sniff, and say, "You've cooked the meat too long, Tsavani!" or "These glasses aren't clean enough, Tsavani!" Pfft! If only there was some way she could get back at that Altmer n'wah just once!

"_I can help you achieve your goal, my friend!"_ a Voice whispered.

"Who speaks?" Tsavani twitched her ears around, whiskers on full alert. Her eyes saw everything in the gloomy recesses of the storage room. There was no one in here with her.

"_I'm a friend," _the Voice assured her. _"If you release me, take me and keep me, claim me for your own, I will help you attain your heart's desire."_

The Voice seemed to come from within a chest in the corner. This was Malborn's chest. She really shouldn't touch it. He might get angry, and while he was sometimes a jerk, he was mostly nice to her. At least, they both had one thing in common: they both hated the Ambassador.

"How are you trapped in a chest?" the Khajiit cook asked. "Tsavani is confused."

"_Open the chest,"_ the Voice said soothingly, _"and all shall be revealed. You wish to kill the Ambassador. I can help you do that."_

Tsavani opened the chest.

"_The Blade," _the mysterious Voice urged her. _"Take the Ebony Blade."_

* * *

><p>"You lying little son-of-a-bitch!" Marcus snarled, grabbing Malborn by the throat. "Where the fuck is it? What did you do with it?"<p>

"Keep your voice down or we're both dead!" Malborn choked. "I swear I don't know! By the Eight Divines, I promise you I put all your gear in this chest! No one knew!"

"Someone knew," the Dragonborn hissed. "That was the only weapon I brought with me, and now it's gone! You want me to do this thing, so tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to do now!" He tossed Malborn away from him. The wood elf took the opportunity to back away toward the kitchen.

"I don't know!" he insisted. "I swear to you I don't know what happened to it. But I have to get back before I'm missed, and if that happens, it will blow your cover, too!" There was an underlying threat in his tone that Marcus didn't miss. Malborn was prepared to throw him under the bus – or in this case, carriage – if he caused a scene.

Malborn closed the door behind him and locked it. Grinding his teeth, Marcus opened the other door and crept out into the hallway. Great. Just fucking great. How was he supposed to protect himself without any kind of weapon? If he ever found out who stole the Ebony Blade, that person was dead meat. Things couldn't get much worse.

"Wait. Did you hear something?"

Crap. Sneaking never had been his strong suit.

Two Altmer soldiers came into the corridor from a room on the left. One of them gestured and a glowing blue sword erupted from his hand.

_Well, that's handy._ Marcus grimaced at his own unintentional pun. _I might be tempted to learn magic just for that._

When a third figure in long robes joined the other two, Marcus blasted them with his Unrelenting Force, watching with smug satisfaction as they were blown down the corridor. Thankfully, the walls were thick enough and the music loud enough in the next room that he didn't think anyone else would come join the party going on here.

The two soldiers gained their feet first and one of them swung his sharply-hooked elven mace at Marcus. He ducked under the blow and slammed his elbow into the man's kidneys. Dodging to one side to avoid the conjured blade coming at him, he kicked out with his legs and swept the elf's feet out from under him, bringing him down to the ground again. A sharp thrust with the base of his palm to the soldier's chin slammed his head back against the floor. The conjured blade winked out as the man's eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness.

Ozone filled the air as a lightning bolt shot past him. The mage was going to be the biggest threat, Marcus knew, and that meant he had to go down quickly. Grabbing a stack of plates off a side table Marcus began to frisbee them at the Thalmor's head in rapid succession while the first guard was getting groggily to his feet. The guard raised his axe for a swing at Marcus' unprotected back – he hadn't had a chance to get into his armor yet – but Marcus saw the blow coming and grabbed the elf's wrist, flipping him neatly over his shoulder. Now the guard was between Marcus and the Thalmor wizard, who had already sent his fireball in Marcus' direction. Marcus pushed the man into the impact and back flipped out of the line of fire. The guard cried out and fell to the floor, unmoving. The mage looked horrified, and then glared at Marcus, who had ended up back by the pantry door.

Marcus glanced around to find anything he could use to his advantage. The mage raised his hands to cast another spell just as Marcus grabbed a large platter off the sideboard, and the metal serving dish intercepted three ice spikes as Marcus blinked at how close they'd come to piercing his head. Throwing it at the wizard, he tumbled right up to the man and went into a series of thrusts, punches and strikes targeting the central nervous system. The mage fell to the floor, jerking in spasms.

"That'll hold you for a little bit, anyway," he grinned. _"Laas,"_ he whispered. So far, so good. The party-goers in the other room were none the wiser. Further away, beyond the walls of the building, he saw a dozen or so more red figures surrounding the Embassy proper. Glancing through a window, he saw a courtyard opposite the main entrance by which he'd come in a few hours before. At the far end of the courtyard was another building. Well and good. He'd search this one first, and if he didn't find what he was looking for, he'd try to make it over to the other building.

But not without his armor, and not unarmed. Relieving the unconscious guard of the elven sword he'd never drawn – and why hadn't he, when it was obviously hanging off his belt? – Marcus donned his armor as quickly as he could. There were stairs in the other room leading up, and another quick Aura Whisper revealed nothing waiting for him up there. He found a set of Thalmor boots, gloves and a hooded robe in an unused chamber and took those as well. If worse came to worst, he might be able to bluff his way across the courtyard, as long as he kept his head down.

A thorough search upstairs provided nothing of interest. There were potions and loose change lying around, but Marcus was more interested in the books; even then, only a few seemed to be worth appropriating. It was time to get over to that other building, and that meant slipping the Thalmor robes over his armor. He removed his boots and put on the Thalmor ones, which were narrow and pinched, and he almost couldn't get the gauntlets over his hands, which were much larger than an Altmer's.

_And I look like Quasimodo with this damned robe over my armor!_ he thought sourly. Oh well, there was no help for it. It was either try subterfuge or fight his way through a cadre of the Altmer Third Reich. Taking a deep breath, and keeping one hand on the hilt of the elven sword strapped to his side, Marcus pushed open the door to the courtyard. Head down, barely glancing up to stay on target, he made it halfway across before he was challenged.

"You there!" a female mage called. "Why aren't you at your post?"

Thinking quickly, Marcus affected the Altmer accent and answered, with his head still down, "I'm under orders from the Ambassador herself. You can either let me get on about my business, or explain to Elenwen why I was delayed."

"Er…no, forgive me," the woman said, retreating. "Never mind! Go on your way, please!"

_Not bad,_ he thought. _All those years of watching _Masterpiece Theatre _with Lynne are paying off._ Without appearing to rush too quickly, he strode purposefully to the other building and opened the door.

Closing it behind him, the first thing he noticed was another guard standing with her back to the door. From a room off to his left, he heard voices raised in heated debate.

"But I need that money!" the first man said, a Nord, by his accent.

"Silence!" a second man snapped, clearly Altmer by his accent. "Do not presume, Gissur. You are most useful, but do not presume. We have other informants who are less…offensive."

Marcus slipped behind a potted plant and crouched quietly, listening.

"But no one else has brought you such valuable information, have they?" Gissur persuaded. "Etienne, he's talked, hasn't he? He knows where that old man is you're looking for, he told me himself."

"You'll get the rest of your money when we confirm his story. As agreed," the Altmer sneered.

There was a note of shrewdness in Gissur's voice. "So he _has_ talked! I knew it!"

"Everyone talks, in the end," the other man said in a bored tone. "Now, I have work to do. Leave me to it, if you ever want to see the rest of your payment."

There was silence for a heartbeat or two. Then Gissur spoke again. "Can I…I could help you," he offered. He sounded sickly eager to do so. "He'd talk to me. He trusts me."

The other man gave a short, unpleasant bark of laughter. "You'd like to come downstairs with me, is that it, Gissur? Shall we loose his bonds and put you in a cell together? You can ask him anything you like and see how he answers!"

Gissur backed down. "No, no. I'll…I'll wait outside."

"That would be best," the Altmer sneered again. "Now get out!"

So they had someone downstairs they were torturing to get information from. This Gissur fellow was the one that sold his buddy to the Thalmor, and he was trying to extort more money out of them for it. Marcus was sickened. He wanted to go in there and tear them both apart, but his inner dragon spoke caution. There were three of them, and if the Thalmor ran true to form, the one in the other room with Gissur was probably a mage.

Two men emerged from the room at that point, one a Nord in rags, and the other – to his inner dragon's extreme smugness – a Thalmor wizard in long robes. The guard was still standing at the base of the stairs, but now she was waiting to see what the other two would do.

Gissur headed for the door, to Marcus' right; he couldn't fail to see the Dragonborn crouched there if he turned his eyes that way.

But Gissur was muttering to himself. "He can't treat me like that. He needs me! Rulindil, pah! One day, the shoe will be on the other foot…" He was still grousing under his breath as he exited the building, heading outside.

Marcus slowly released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. In his quiet panic over Gissur's proximity, he'd lost sight of the wizard, Rulindil. A clang of something heavy and iron from somewhere below told Marcus that the mage must have gone downstairs to the torture chamber. That just left the guard.

Marcus waited until the woman's back was turned, then snuck up behind her and hit her hard across the back of the skull with the hilt of his sword. With a groan, the woman sank to the ground. She'd be out for hours, most likely, and he hoped she'd have a raging headache when she awoke. A quick glance out the window ensured that Gissur was still waiting outside, still grousing to anyone who would listen. No one was.

The first thing he did was head upstairs to see if there were any important papers in the rooms above. One bedroom was clearly Elenwen's, and he found a safe in an alcove, containing some gold, a few gems and a couple of small items. He was no thief, but taking the gold might hamstring the Ambassador's operations here, and it was harder to trace where coins had come from than more identifiable items such as jewelry.

A small, leather-bound journal in the bottom of the safe caught his eye. The flyleaf was marked: CONFIDENTIAL and FOR FIRST EMMISSARY ELENWEN'S EYES ONLY. Well, now. Things were looking up. He tucked that away as well.

As he passed a side table he noticed a blue bottle that looked vaguely familiar. Quickly uncorking it he inhaled. Oh yes, this was definitely coming with him. Marcus grinned as he wrapped up the bottle of Colovian brandy and tucked it carefully into his pack. He was thrilled to notice it was almost full.

Downstairs once more, he ransacked Rulindil's office and study, looking for anything pertaining to either the return of the dragons, or a second assault against the Empire. Two dossiers in a locked chest were labeled "Ulfric Stormcloak" and "Delphine of Camlorn" and were lying next to a parchment document labeled "Dragon Investigation: Current Status." He took those, as well as four volumes of _Rising Threat_ from the book shelf – which seemed to have some historical background on the Thalmor – and a key that was lying on the desk.

Creeping down the stairs, he quietly unlocked the door with the key and peered in. A short corridor opened into a larger room, and as he approached the doorway he heard screaming.

"I don't know his name!" a tired voice pleaded. "Please! I've already told you a hundred—_AHHHH!"_

This last was screamed out, and Marcus heard Rulindil say, "You know the rules. Just answer the questions. And where can we find this nameless old man?"

Marcus peered into the room. Not far away, past some kind of primitive torture device, Rulindil was standing in the doorway of an iron cage; inside, a ragged, brutally-beaten man was manacled to the wall. Rulindil was smiling, enjoying the session. His right hand crackled with electricity; his left hand was stroking his cock beneath his robes.

"For pity's sake," the man in the cage moaned, "I've already told you all I know. Why won't you believe me?"

He howled and writhed in pain once more as the Thalmor aimed a steady stream of sparks at him, pumping his cock with the other hand.

Disgusted, Marcus had seen enough. He strode into the room.

"You know, they say confessions obtained by torture are the least reliable."

Rulindil whipped around to aim the lightning at this intruder who had the audacity to interrupt his pleasure, but found himself flying across the room instead, slamming into the iron cage at the far end as the chamber resounded with, _"FUS RO DAH!"_

Instantly, Marcus leaped on the wizard and hacked away with the elven sword. Rage suffused his entire being, and when a second Altmer, who he hadn't seen lurking in the corner, attacked him from behind, Marcus whirled with a flying kick that sent the hapless Altmer stumbling backward, tripping over the torture rack.

Rulindil was now attempting to get to his feet, but Marcus punched him in the face with the hilt of the sword so hard he felt the septum give way. Blood gushed from the Altmer's nose and he reeled, before bringing up his hand to cast an ice spike right into Marcus' midsection.

He felt the cold, the gut-wrenching cold, and felt his muscles constrict, but Marcus was getting used to this kind of abuse by now. He gritted his teeth against the pain and feinted high before sweeping low with the blade. Rulindil's shriek would have shattered glass as Marcus liberated his favorite 'toy' from his body. The mage collapsed, and Marcus wiped his blade in disgust on the black and gold Thalmor robes as a bloody stain spread across the middle.

The armor-clad guard rushed up behind him once more and brought her cruelly-hooked mace down on Marcus' head. He felt the impact, but the Nordic carved helm withstood the blow. Turning to face the woman, he head-bashed her, causing her to fall backward, knocking the table of torture instruments to the floor. She swept out with an armored leg, but Marcus easily avoided the kick and knocked her unconscious, the way he'd done with the guard upstairs. So far, so good. Only two casualties, and one of them wasn't his fault. The other was entirely deserved.

Quickly rummaging through the two bodies – one unconscious and one dead – Marcus found a key on Rulindil's and rushed to the cage to release the prisoner, who must have been this Etienne they were detaining. In gratitude, the young man told him everything he knew about the old man the Thalmor were interested in.

"I've heard of him, living down in the Ratway," Etienne said, rubbing his wrists. "Don't know his name or who he is or anything, but I think they've got some kind of document on him in that chest over there." He pointed outside his cage to a trunk on the floor next to a desk. Marcus quickly opened the chest and found a third dossier, labeled simply, "Esbern".

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"Sure," Etienne agreed quickly. "Come on, I think there's a trap door over here that they use to dispose of the bodies."

"Listen up, spy! We have your accomplice."

Oh, crap. What now?

"Give yourself up and come along quietly, or we will kill him immediately." Marcus didn't doubt that for a moment.

"What does it matter?" Malborn's voice drifted down. "I'm dead already."

Great. The little snitch just had to get himself caught! Motioning Etienne to move back toward the trap door, Marcus crept back to the stairs and made his way up as quickly and as quietly as he could.

"This is your last warning, intruder! Give yourself up. You cannot escape us!"

"Wanna bet?" Marcus growled, coming up behind the closest one and slitting the man's throat. The other guard immediately attacked the unarmored Malborn, who could defend himself only with a dagger against a fully trained Thalmor soldier.

"Get back!" Marcus barked at him and inserted himself between the two. It put him far too close to the Altmer to wield the sword effectively in the tight loft area, but it didn't prevent him from head bashing the man.

Sparks flew as Nordic carved steel collided with refined moonstone armor, and both men staggered, seeing stars briefly. The Altmer recovered first and rushed after Malborn, who was beating a hasty retreat down the stairs. Knowing he couldn't get there in time, Marcus Shouted, _"Feim!"_ and felt himself pulled into the ethereal state. He leaped lightly over the railing and landed without injury on the floor below. Malborn rushed past him, nearly losing time doing a double-take as Marcus felt himself begin to solidify again. Thank goodness the Shout didn't last too long.

Once more between the nearly defenseless Malborn and the Altmer soldier, Marcus swung the elven blade and connected with the mace. The elf grinned wickedly and twisted the sword out of Marcus' hands, watching as it sailed through the air into a far corner of the room.

"Looks like you're out of weapons," he sneered gleefully.

"But not out of options," Marcus countered. _"FO!"_

The column of frost hit the Thalmor squarely in the face, and Marcus launched into a string of martial attacks that left the elf battered and unconscious.

"Come on," he told the others after grabbing a key off the guard and retrieving his sword. "Let's get out of here!"

The trap door led into a tunnel, which led into an ice cave, which led to Marcus having to fight an ice troll all by himself to give the others time to escape. When it was finally done, he noticed a body further back in the cave. Next to the body was a coin purse, a spell book and the strangest thing Marcus had ever seen: an iridescent pink gem, gleaming and floating above a blue velvet-lined carved golden box. Not even sure who would know about something like this, Marcus pocketed the gem and headed out of the cave after the others.

"Now the Thalmor will be hunting me the rest of my life," Malborn moaned. "I sure hope this was worth it."

"You can always go back and say you're sorry," Marcus said unsympathetically. He still hadn't forgiven the wood elf for losing the Ebony Blade.

"No thanks," Malborn shuddered. "I'm headed to Windhelm. I'm going to see if I can catch a boat to Morrowind and hide out for the next few hundred years."

"Good luck with that," Marcus called out after his retreating back. He wondered if Malborn picked up on any intended sarcasm. He turned to the other man standing nearby.

"What will you do now?" he asked him.

"I'm headed back to Riften," Etienne said. "You didn't have to help me, but you did, and for that, I thank you. If you're ever in Riften, look me up in the Ragged Flagon."

"I'll do that," Marcus promised with a smile. He gave Etienne a spare elven dagger he'd picked up off one of the guards, as well as some of his potions. "I'd offer you some armor, but…well…"

"No worries," Etienne said. "I'll be fine now. Farewell."

Marcus watched Etienne jog off in the opposite direction of Malborn. Now he just had to figure out where he was, and make his way back to Riverwood. But he fully intended to commit the dossiers to memory, in case Delphine decided to hang onto them. And there was the little matter of that confidential journal he found in Elenwen's safe. _That_ should make for some quite interesting reading.

No doubt about it, now. If he wasn't on the Thalmor Hit Parade before, he was certainly top of the list after _this_ little incident. It wouldn't take long for the Thalmor Ambassador to figure out that the one guest she couldn't place at her little soiree turned out to be the one person who caused so much wreck and ruin.

As he took his bearings and made his way down the hillside, he worried. Would the Thalmor come after his family? They hadn't better, he thought grimly, or there would be no place in Skyrim, or indeed Tamriel where they could hide from the wrath of the Dragonborn.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: And there you have it. "Diplomatic Immunity" as only Marcus could do it. He did his best to keep the bloodshed to a minimum, but the repercussions will still be felt for some time to come, especially since there's that little matter of a lost Daedric item (you didn't really think I'd let an honest man like Marcus <em>keep_ a foul thing like that, did you?)._

_Next up we head to Riften to find an old man hiding out in the Ratway, and Marcus gets his first encounter with the Thieves' Guild.]_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Morthal looked the same as it had when Marcus was last here. He'd taken the carriage from Solitude just as quickly as he could. If the Thalmor decided to question Thaer, they would only learn that a lone male passenger in Nordic carved armor had traveled to Morthal. It wasn't the best plan for avoiding potential pursuit, Marcus knew, and he doubted it would fool the Thalmor for a moment. But at least he would have to walk from here, and there would be any number of directions he could go.

He stopped at the guardhouse and found Benor sharpening the Orkish greatsword.

"Marcus!" the Nord cried delightedly when he saw him come in. "Good to see you again. I didn't expect it to be so soon, though. What's up?" The two men clasped wrists.

"Your sword still available?" the Dragonborn asked.

"You know it is," Benor enthused. "Where are we going?"

"Riverwood, eventually," Marcus replied quietly. "But there's a place I need to go first, and it's fairly nearby. Ever hear of Dead Men's Respite?"

"Yeah, I have," Benor said. "But why are you whispering?"

"I'm not—" Marcus realized that he had, in fact, been doing just that, and cleared his throat. "I'm not whispering," he continued in a normal voice. "I just want to make sure we're not overheard."

"Now you're sounding like Delphine," Benor said. Marcus scowled at him until Benor grinned, then he relaxed and chuckled.

"Yeah, I guess I am a bit," he admitted. "I understand a few things now I didn't know before. If you're ready to go, we'll talk on the way."

It didn't take long for Benor to get his gear together; they then headed out together on the road that led southwest out of town.

Marcus told Benor of his exploits infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy. Benor just whistled. "You sure know how to pick an enemy!" he commented.

"It's a gift," Marcus shrugged, hiding how worried he was. He didn't think they would be so foolish as to go after his family in Whiterun, but that depended on whether they put two and two together and figured out that Marcus Solomon of Des Moines – the alias he insisted Delphine use on his invitation – was actually Marcus Dragonborn of Whiterun.

"Why 'Solomon'?" Delphine had asked. "It's not very wise to use your real name, you know, especially where the Thalmor are concerned."

"It's not my real name," he quirked a grin at her. "'Solomon' means a solo man…a man working on his own. Des Moines is where I used to live before I came to Skyrim, but it's so far off the map it will take them years to find it. That's wasted time in my favor."

Delphine gave him an admiring look. "I guess you're thinking ahead after all," she admitted reluctantly as she forged the invitation.

* * *

><p>Dead Men's Respite was a sprawling Nordic ruin set back into a hill along one of the tributaries of the Karth River. It was filled with draugr and frostbite spiders…and a ghost that seemed to be leading them through the barrow, down into its depths to a small, partially collapsed room containing the skeleton of a man in a tattered bard's tunic, clutching an ancient journal in the remains of its hand. The ghost sat silently nearby, waiting and watching.<p>

Marcus took the journal, and the ghost disappeared. The leather-bound book was in a sad state of disrepair, but what he could read seemed to be a diatribe against King Olaf One-Eye.

"Olaf One-Eye?" Benor asked, when Marcus told him. "Who was that?"

"Jarl Balgruuf told me about him," Marcus said pensively. "He was supposedly the King that built Dragonsreach and used it to capture the dragon, Numinex. See? It says right here, 'O Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyes betrayer, death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King. Your legend is lies, lurid and false; your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.'"

"I can't read, remember?" Benor grumbled.

"Sorry, I forgot," Marcus said, abashed. "It sounds like someone didn't like Olaf, that's for sure. I can't read very much more. This book is in bad shape. It must have been down here a long time. Let's see here. 'Olaf grabbed power by promise and threat; From Falkreath to Winterhold they fell to their knees; But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim's truest protectors. Olaf's vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked."

"What did he do?" Benor asked, curious in spite of himself.

"I don't know," Marcus said regretfully. "It's all smudged and faded from the dampness in this place. There's only a little bit at the end I can make out: 'So ends the story of Olaf the liar, a thief and a scoundrel we of Solitude commit to the fire. In Solitude bards train for their service, they also gather each year and burn a King who deserves it.'"

"Well, are we taking it with us?" Benor asked impatiently. "There's still that big door upstairs we haven't gone through yet."

"Not for lack of trying," Marcus muttered. "Yeah, I'll take the book with me. Balgruuf might want to look at it. I don't think he'll like what he'll read, though. Olaf One-Eye was supposedly some ancestor of his."

"Then don't show it to him," Benor shrugged as they made their way back up.

"You can't deny history just because it's unpleasant," Marcus said. "If this journal has any truth to it, and I think it might, we owe it to—" here he flipped it open to the flyleaf again. "We owe it to this Svaknir fellow to bring that truth to light."

"Who's Svaknir?"

"I think he's the ghost who's been leading us through here," Marcus said.

"You mean him?" Benor pointed.

At the top of the stairs, the ghost was waiting for them. As they approached, he drew his spectral sword, gestured toward the sealed door which banged open and charged down the hallway beyond, disappearing before he reached the end, where another Nordic puzzle door awaited them. By now, it was the work of a moment to dig out the ruby-tipped claw key they'd found near the entrance and set the proper combination – wolf, hawk, wolf – before fitting the claw into the holes and getting the door open. Marcus grinned as Benor's face fell in awe, then he grew serious.

"Get ready," he warned his friend. "Every time I've opened one of these doors, I've had the fight of my life on the other side."

"I'm ready," Benor grinned.

The chamber they entered was lined with draugr seated on stone and iron thrones flanking a shallow pool of water. At the far end of the chamber, stairs rose up to a platform with four more draugr – tougher-looking than any he'd seen so far – and beyond them it climbed to a final tier with a large sarcophagus situated there. Dimly, Marcus heard chanting, and knew he'd found the Word Wall his mysterious 'Friend' had told him would be here.

For the first time since they'd seen him at the barrow's entry hall, the ghost spoke in a raspy voice.

"_Olaf!"_ he cried. _"It is time!"_

The ground rumbled, and several of the draugr near them awoke, evil blue lights in their eyes.

"Ysmir's beard!" Benor yelped.

"What's the matter?" Marcus grinned. "We've fought draugr before."

"Not so many at once, though!" Benor grumbled.

"At least they're not _all_ getting up at once," Marcus offered, trying to be helpful. And then it was time to get serious as the undead strode towards them. The ghost of Svaknir seemed to enjoy the benefit of being able to cause damage without taking any. Marcus envied him only for that. He had no intention of letting the walking dead make him one of their number. He stood back to back with Benor and they systematically cut down every draugr that came their way.

When the first wave was defeated, Svaknir spoke again.

"_Arise, Olaf! My vengeance is at hand!"_

Once more the floor shook, and more draugr rose to their feet.

"Here we go again!" Benor warned. For several minutes the only sounds were the sounds of steel on steel, the grunting of the draugr, and Marcus' well-placed Shouts. This battle was even tougher, since several of the draugr were spell-casters, and a few of them even knew Shouts of their own. Benor went down at one point, and Svaknir stood over him, fending off attackers until the big Nord could wrest a healing potion out of his backpack to drink.

Finally it was quiet again, and Svaknir advanced up the stairs to the large sarcophagus that lay there.

"_Olaf!"_ he demanded.

_CRACK!_ The lid of the coffin blew off, and the mummified form of King Olaf One-Eye himself rose from his eternal sleep.

"_Insolent Bard!"_ he growled. _"Die!"_

Svaknir leaped at him, and the two adversaries clashed. Benor held back and shot at the draugr-King with his bow, doing little damage. Marcus raised his elven sword and brought it down, but Olaf seemed to have expected this, and stopped the blow with a backward block with his Warhammer, twisting it around and nearly causing Marcus to lose his grip on his weapon.

The undead King glared at the Dragonborn and Shouted at him, _"Zun haal viik!"_

Now the elven sword did fly across the room, and Marcus suddenly found himself without a weapon.

_Crap! He Shouts?_

Seeing the dead King bearing down on him with Svaknir in hot pursuit, Marcus leaped down the stairs, scanning desperately for his sword.

"Over by the table!" Benor called, pointing. He shot two more arrows at the draugr King, but they had little effect. Svaknir stabbed with his sword, causing Olaf to turn and battle the ghost of the bard he had imprisoned here. Marcus took the opportunity of the distraction to scramble down and grab his sword. Feeling decidedly more comfortable now he was re-armed, Marcus made a mental note to try and carry more than one weapon from now on.

The battle raged on for several more minutes, until finally, Marcus was able to use his Unrelenting Force without catching either Benor or Svaknir in it. The undead monarch flew backward against the Word Wall, and Svaknir leaped up and stabbed him through the middle of his chest. The light went out of the undead's eyes, and it was over. Svaknir bowed to Benor and Marcus, then stood by a door to the left of the sarcophagus and took out a lute. They couldn't hear what he played, sadly, but suddenly Svaknir's ghost was enveloped in white light and he vanished.

Now that all the fighting was over, Marcus heard the chanting of the Word Wall louder than ever. Stepping closer, the now-familiar feeling of absorbing the Word came over him. _Nah._ Fury. He knew what it meant, knew that it belonged to Whirlwind Sprint, but could not lock its deeper understanding. He had no dragon soul in reserve. Well, that could be remedied soon enough. Dragons were, after all, returning to Skyrim.

The two living men found a key on Olaf's body which opened the door and revealed a tunnel that led out of the tomb. The large chest they passed along the way was, they felt, a justifiable reward for what they'd been through.

"What's the quickest way back to Whiterun from here?" Marcus asked Benor as they left the ruins.

"Hmm," the big Nord considered. "There's a trail that leads up to North Cold Rock Pass," he offered. It starts on the other side of the river just east of here. Not many people go that way, though. It's too dangerous."

"In what way?"

"Well, there's trolls, for example," Benor answered. "And lately I've heard reports of a dragon that's taken roost on Eldersblood Peak just above the pass."

"Well, we don't have to go that way, if you're not up to it," Marcus replied sincerely.

Benor snorted. "I can handle myself," he said firmly.

_Uthgerd thought the same thing,_ Marcus thought, but kept it to himself.

In the end, at Benor's urging, they took the pass and dealt with the trolls and the dragon. Marcus learned another Word, _zun_, which meant "weapon". This was the first word of the disarming Shout Master Arngeir had told him about, that had been taught to Ulfric Stormcloak. Between _zun _and _nah,_ Marcus decided to unlock the Disarm Shout first. He could already sprint; being able to rip someone's weapon out of their hand seemed a better strategy.

As they surveyed the land from the top of Eldersblood Peak, Marcus could just make out a small town far to the southwest in the fading light of the day.

"Rorikstead," Benor told him. "Ain't much there, really. It's kind of a farming village."

He couldn't see Whiterun from here; too dark, too much distance, and too many hills. But he did notice a ruin tucked at the foot of the mountain. "What's that place?" He asked Benor, pointed down below them.

The big Nord shrugged. "Not sure," he said. "But if you're not in a hurry and you want to check it out, I'm with you.

Rannveig's Fast, the place turned out to be. It was a small, insignificant dot on his map, and haunted by ghosts who protested they didn't want to hurt the two men while still rushing forward to attack. Inside, he'd quickly found a Word Wall behind a large chest. Benor had charged forward, and only Marcus' quick reflexes kept the big Nord from plummeting down a hidden trap in the floor. Stairways to either side led safely around the trap so that Marcus could get access to the Wall.

_Drem, _he read. Peace. Ah ha! This belonged to the other Word which would calm animals. Well, he'd file it away for now. He had no more dragon souls in any case. What concerned him more was that this was obviously a set-up: an empty chest just beyond a trap door; the ghosts which pleaded with them to understand they didn't want to fight them. Something wasn't right here. Sensing another mystery, Marcus and Benor pushed on further into the barrow, laying more ghosts to rest along the way.

Eventually they came to a room under the main chamber which housed the Word Wall. There, a chamber of horrors met their eyes as a sadistic warlock waited for unwary victims to fall into his traps. They made short work of him when he attempted to add the two men to his ranks of subjugated ghosts, and his journal told the whole sordid story. Marcus was sickened, and was all for burning the place to ashes right then and there. Aside from the new Word and an interesting-looking book called _The Aetherium Wars_, the only other good thing to come out of the barrow was another of those unusual gems, and the feeling that he had been able to give several spirits a final rest.

Exiting the barrow through a secret, rear entrance, Marcus and Benor found the tundra of Whiterun Hold rolling away before them. They had come through the hills and mountains at last, and would be able to make good time from here on in. They decided to push on through the night.

By the time they got to Whiterun, the sun was already well on its way up the sky. Adrianne nodded to him at her forge, and the guards greeted him with, "Staying safe, I hope?"

"I'm trying to," he answered cheerfully.

Down the street, toward the market, Marcus noticed a crowd had gathered. There was a lot of shouting going on. This was most unusual.

"Some kind of celebration?" Benor asked. "A holiday I don't know about?" He hoped there would be mead, if that was the case.

"I don't know," Marcus said. "Maybe we'd better go check it out."

"Lead the way," Benor grinned.

It was difficult to push through the crowd, as they were tightly packed, shoulder to shoulder. He noticed the guards weren't doing anything to stop whatever was going on, so it couldn't be that serious. And indeed, now he was closer, he could hear a lot of childish voices raised in aggression and encouragement.

"Don't just lie there! Get up and do something!" someone called. It sounded like Amren.

"I'm trying!" a girl's voice whined, "but she won't stand still!"

"What's going on?" Marcus asked the person closest to him. It was Anoriath. The Bosmer did a double-take and suddenly cleared his throat.

"Oh! Ah, hello there, Marcus!" the butcher called, a bit too loudly. "I didn't know you'd returned!"

Several other people nearby turned their heads at that point, and suddenly Marcus felt like he was Moses parting the Red Sea as the crowd divided before him.

In the middle of the market square, near the well, Lucia was balancing on the balls of her feet, her arms held in close, but balanced. On the ground in front of his daughter was a very dusty, very disheveled Braith. There was a scrape on one cheek, and it looked like she had a split lip.

Marcus shot a critical look at Lucia; there wasn't a scratch on her.

"Lucia," he said, as lightly as he could. "You want to tell me what's going on around here?"

"Papa!" Lucia cried, running to him and throwing her arms around his waist. "I did what you said, Papa! I didn't let her touch me!"

Parental pride warred with the need to remain stern. "I see," he said, setting her an arm's length away from him as the townsfolk suddenly realized they had other places to be. "So you started the fight?"

"No, Papa! I didn't!" Lucia looked stricken.

"She didn't start the fight," Braith said now, getting up from the ground and gingerly touching her mouth. "I did."

"_You_ did, Braith?" Amren looked shocked. "But why, sweetling?" He looked helplessly over to the man who had generously helped him out when he didn't have to. "Marcus, I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

"Let your daughter explain, Amren," Marcus said quietly.

Braith shuffled her feet and looked at the ground, refusing to meet her father's gaze. "I was mad because I though Lars liked her better 'n me," she said finally.

"Lars?" Amren blinked. "I thought you didn't like Lars! You're always going on about what a mi—" once again Amren bit off what he'd been about to said, seeing Jon Battle-Born standing nearby, unashamedly watching the proceedings.

"I just wanted him to notice me," Braith mumbled.

"Threatening to beat someone up isn't a good way to get noticed," Marcus told her. "You'll get noticed, alright, but for all the wrong reasons."

"I thought Lucia hurt you?" Amren said now, squatting down next to his daughter and brushing her hair away from her face.

"She never touched me," Braith admitted. "She kept ducking out of the way. I didn't know she was so fast!"

"Then how did you get this?" her father asked, gently touching the scraped face.

Braith hung her head again. "I—I leaped at her, and she moved, and the next thing I knew I was kissing the well," she said, abashed. She looked up at Lucia and gave a tremulous smile. "You're pretty good, you know?" she said admiringly. "How did you learn to move like that?"

Lucia smiled back and looked up at Marcus, eyes glowing with love. "My Papa taught me," she said proudly.

* * *

><p>The crisis averted, the crowd dispersed completely and the marketplace got back to the business of business. Amren took his daughter home to clean her up, with a solemn promise to the Dragonborn to talk to Braith.<p>

"Don't just talk to her," Marcus told him. _"Listen_ to her as well. Her acting out like she does is a plea for attention. If you and Saffir don't give it to her willingly, she'll find other ways to get it."

Amren hung his head and again apologized for Braith's bullying behavior, vowing it would cease.

_Not overnight it won't,_ Marcus thought, _but it's a start._

Once inside Breezehome, he told Lucia to get washed up for supper.

"And for the record," he whispered in her ear, "I'm _very_ proud of you!"

She giggled happily as she ran off to get ready for the midday meal.

Benor stayed for lunch, and Marcus filled Lydia in on everything that had transpired, except for the invasion of the Thalmor Embassy. The less she – or anyone else – knew about that, the better. But he did caution her, out of earshot of his daughter, that he may have made some dangerous enemies, and she should take note of any strangers coming in to town.

"Are you staying home now, Papa?" Lucia asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry, _chica_," he apologized. "Benor and I have to go to Riverwood this afternoon to speak with someone. I hope to be back soon, but I'm not sure how the meeting will go."

Lucia's face fell. "I understand," she said, containing her disappointment. "But do you think I could have a little gold to spend? Please?"

_Des Moines or Skyrim, all kids are alike,_ he grinned privately. "Well, I don't know," he mused exaggeratedly. "Is your room clean?"

The little girl nodded. It wasn't a very convincing nod, however.

"Hmm…I wonder what I would find if I looked in there?"

Lucia's face looked shocked. "Give me five minutes, Papa!" she exclaimed, and made a dash for her bedroom.

Grinning, Marcus looked over at Benor who was shaking his head. "You really have a way with kids, you know that?" the big Nord said.

"I've been around the block a few times," the Dragonborn replied cryptically, still with that smug grin.

When Lucia returned, Marcus picked her up and sat down with her in a chair. "Now listen, Lucia," he said seriously. "I'm going to give you an allowance, but only on condition that you do your chores each day and keep your room clean, understand?"

Lucia cocked her head to one side. "What kind of chores, Papa?"

"I expect you to help Lydia keep the place clean, wash your clothes when they're dirty, and keep your room tidy. If you do that, you'll get a regular allowance."

"But I thought Lydia was our housekeeper," Lucia frowned.

_Uh oh,_ Marcus thought. _Intervention time. Let's nip this attitude in the bud._

"Lydia is _my_ Housecarl," he corrected his daughter. "She answers to me, not to you. She's sworn to _my_ service, not yours. As such, she's not a 'hired hand' to be ordered around."

Lucia turned this over in her mind. "Alright, Papa," she said finally. "I understand. I'll do my chores and help Lydia when she asks me."

_I'd like it better if you did things without asking,_ he thought, _but I'll take what I can get. Baby steps, Marcus. Baby steps._

He gave his daughter a small pouch of coins, kissed her on the forehead and let her rejoin her friends outside.

"Thank you, my Thane," Lydia said from the corner by the pantry. He hadn't even seen her standing there. He'd thought she was upstairs.

Nodding his acknowledgement, he set about unloading his pack to prepare for the trip to Riverwood.

* * *

><p>"I don't know about you, Marcus," Benor remarked, "and don't get me wrong; I think Riverwood's a nice enough little village, but I'm getting awfully tired of seeing it."<p>

Marcus privately agreed, but he needed to give the information to Delphine that they had risked so much to get. He hadn't had a chance to read the dossiers he'd picked up, so he resolved not to show those to the innkeeper slash covert operations manager. He did manage to read the parchment he'd found, labeled _Dragon Investigation: Current Status, _penned by Rulindil and meant for Ambassador Elenwen's eyes_. _According to Rulindil, the Thalmor knew very little about the return of the dragons, but expected to gain some information soon, by means which were obscure, but undoubtedly involved some of the torture apparati he'd seen in the lower level of the Embassy. It was very interesting reading, and Marcus was gladder than ever that he had ended the sadistic torturer's life.

This time Delphine wasn't waiting in the common room for them, but by now both men knew where they'd find her. They made their way downstairs, after securing the doors.

She looked up from the alchemy lab as they entered.

"You made it out alive, at least," she said in obvious relief. For a moment, Marcus was almost touched by her concern. "Your gear is safe over there in the chest, as promised."

He'd almost forgotten about that. After giving almost everything over to Malborn (whom he still thought had taken the Ebony Blade) the little he had left – a few gold, keys he didn't need, extra lockpicks and so forth – had had to be turned over to Delphine to avoid any possibility that he would be refused entry into the Embassy.

"Did you learn anything useful?" Delphine asked now, as he reclaimed his possessions.

"No," Marcus said shortly. "It's like I thought. They don't know anything about it."

"Really?" she blinked, then frowned. "That seems hard to believe. You're sure about that?"

"Why did you send me on that wild goose chase if you aren't going to believe me?" he snapped. "I risked my neck both getting in there and out of there!" _And I didn't come out with everything I went in there with,_ he simmered privately.

Delphine saw the anger in his amber eyes and backed down. "You're right!" she said, putting her hands up in surrender. "You're right. I just..I was sure it must have been them."

"Well, you were wrong," Marcus stated without sarcasm. He was proud of himself for keeping his voice neutral.

Delphine paced up and down the small room. "If not the Thalmor, then who?" she muttered. "Or what?"

"I don't know," Marcus sighed. "I still personally think the dragons have their own agenda going. The Thalmor certainly don't know, but they're looking for someone they think does. Some guy named Esbern."

At this, Delphine's head shot up. "Esbern?" she cried. "He's alive?" Her voice was laced with delight, underlined with worry. "I thought the Thalmor must have got him years ago." She chuckled softly. "That crazy old man…it figures they'd be on his trail, though, if they were trying to find out what's going on with the dragons."

"Why would they want this Esbern guy?" Benor asked.

"You mean, aside from wanting to kill every Blade they can lay their hands on?" She shuddered, and Marcus felt a pang of sympathy for what she must have endured the last thirty years. "Esbern was one of the Blades' archivists," she explained, "back before the Thalmor smashed us during the Great War. You two are too young to remember that, but for me it could have been yesterday." Her eyes grew distant, as she looked back over memories of which the two men with her were no part.

She seemed to give herself a mental shake, however, and continued. "Esbern knew everything about the ancient dragonlore of the Blades," she said. "Obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then. I guess he wasn't as crazy as we all thought." This last was said softly, sadly, and again Marcus felt that pang of empathy. Delphine had lost nearly as much as he had.

_Damn you, Delphine,_ he thought. _Don't make me start liking you!_

Benor seemed to be turning everything over in his mind. "So the Thalmor seem to think the Blades know about the dragons…" he mused.

Delphine gave a mirthless snort. "Ironic, isn't it?" she acknowledged. "The old enemies always assume that every calamity must be a plot by the other side. Even so, we've got to find Esbern before they do. He'll know how to stop the dragons, if anybody does." She turned to Marcus. "Do they know where he is?"

"Yeah," Marcus said. "They seem to think he's in Riften."

"Riften, eh?" Delphine pondered. "Probably down in the Ratway, then," she nodded. "It's where I'd go. You'd better get to Riften, then. Talk to Brynjolf. He's…well connected. It's a good starting point, at least."

The two men turned to leave, but Delphine forestalled them. "Oh, and when you find Esbern…if you think _I'm_ paranoid…you may have some trouble getting him to trust you. Just ask him where he was on the thirtieth of Frostfall," she said softly. "He'll know what it means."

_The 30__th__ of Frostfall,_ Marcus thought. The day the Great War officially began when the Aldmeri Dominion sent an ultimatum to the Imperial City along with a covered cart. When the long list of impossible demands were rejected, the Thalmor ambassador upended the cart, dumping out hundreds of disembodied heads of Blades agents from across Summerset and Valenwood. Marcus had read about that in _The Great War._ That both Delphine, and this Esbern fellow had survived that purge was a testament to their ingenuity and resourcefulness.

He might be angry at Delphine's attempts to manipulate him, but even he had to admit she was a tough old broad. He'd rather have her at his back than threatening his front.

* * *

><p>The ride to Riften had been long. Marcus and Benor had traveled back to Whiterun, but it was late by the time they got back. Benor went back to the Bannered Mare and Marcus headed home to sleep in his own bed once more. Lucia had been waiting up for him and presented him with the gift of a minor healing potion she'd bought with some of the coin he'd given her.<p>

"I just want to make sure you're safe," she said, hugging him.

Marcus thanked her for her thoughtfulness and tucked her back into bed, telling her the story of Jack and the Beanstalk until her eyelids grew heavy, she yawned and snuggled under her blanket with her doll, and her soft, even breathing told him she was asleep before Jack had even gotten away with the goose that laid the golden eggs.

He and Benor caught the early carriage to Riften, leaving Whiterun before the sun was up. There was a stop in Ivarstead at midday for food, comfort and to rest the Gerduin, who had pulled them valiantly through the snowy pass, and then it was off to Riften, following the road that led around Lake Honrich.

"Ever been to Riften before?" Bjorlam had asked them. Neither man had, and their driver smiled. "If you get a chance, make sure to stop in at the Black-Briar Meadery for some of their brew. One sip of that stuff and you'll forget all about the long trip!"

This sounded like a plan to Benor, but Marcus didn't think they'd have any leisure time to explore the city. They needed to find this Brynjolf character that Delphine had mentioned, and see if he knew anything about Esbern.

Since the return of the dragons, Marcus had found himself watching the skies as he traveled. Riding by carriage was not necessarily a guarantee of safety, but he had never been attacked so far. All that changed as they approached the walled city of Riften. A thunderous roar filled the air, and Gerduin reared in her traces, screaming out her fear. Bjorlam wrestled to keep her under control, to prevent her from bolting. Marcus and Benor looked up to see a large, bronze-colored dragon swoop overhead. The guards at the gate had their bows out and ready, trying to get a clear shot at the drake through the thick birch trees that surrounded the city.

Leaping down off the carriage, Marcus and his companion drew their own bows. The dragon hovered directly in front of him, and he Shouted Unrelenting Force at it, even as it belched forth a column of flame in his direction. There was no way to dodge that, and Marcus once again felt the sting of blistered skin and the stench of singed hair.

Quickly, as the dragon flew off and circled around for a strafing run, Marcus grabbed two potions from his pack: one to resist fire and the other to heal the damage he'd taken.

Benor was plugging away at the beast with the new Dwarven arrows he'd bought from Elrindir before they left. He'd also taken the time to repair and improve his bow, and the damage he was doing to the dragon was showing. Marcus nocked his own Dwarven arrows and let fly, getting off only one more before he had to leap aside to avoid the flames headed his way.

It was too soon to Shout again, Marcus knew, and the dragon was smart enough not to land, staying in the air and choosing to use its fire breath instead.

"Aim for the armpits!" he yelled at the guards.

"The what?" the woman called back, perplexed. Did dragons even _have_ armpits?

"The joint where it meets the body!" Marcus clarified, sending an arrow to that exact spot, and seeing with satisfaction how the dragon staggered in the air. "It's a weak spot!"

"Ohh! I get it!" she said, a tone of comprehension in her voice. He couldn't see her face behind the helmet, but he was pretty sure she was grinning, because her next shot could have split his arrow as the dragon screeched and pulled itself away from the city.

"It's headed for the Merryfair Farm!" the other guard called out.

"Let's go get it!" Benor rumbled.

"No need," Marcus said. "It's only wheeling around, looking for a place to land. Here it comes! Watch out!"

The dragon landed in the middle of the road with an earth-quaking _thud_, and immediately lashed out with its wings, knocking several guards away and sending them flying. Marcus and Benor closed with it, flanking it on either side; by now, it was a comfortable, familiar tactic with proven results.

The dragon snapped at Benor and Marcus slashed at it with Uthgerd, which he had brought along. Benor's battleaxe was practically singing as it sliced through the air, whittling away at the dragon on its other side. The guards had recovered and returned, and in a few moments, it was all over as the dragon gasped its last, the light leaving its eyes. The soul poured forth, and Marcus claimed his prize, closing his eyes against the heady rush of knowledge and experience that always filled him. He took a moment to unlock the deeper understanding of _nah_ before opening his eyes.

Closed helmets or not, the guards were all gaping at him.

"I can't believe it!" one said. "You took its very soul!"

"I would never believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

"It may be dead now," the female guard worried, "but where did it come from?"

Marcus wished he had an answer for that. All he could do now was to kill them and take their souls one by one, until he was strong enough to face their lord.

"Let's go," he told Benor. They headed up to the gate, where two guards remained, despite the unusual turn of events.

"Hold there," one of them said, stopping him from entering. "Before I can let you into the city, you have to pay the visitor tax."

_What kind of crap is this?_ Marcus felt his inner dragon rumbling. "What's the tax for?" he asked, dangerously.

"For the privilege of entering the city," the guard said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "What does it matter?"

That did it. Something snapped inside the Dragonborn.

"I just killed a fucking _dragon_ out here!" he snarled, shoving himself into the man's personal space without touching him. "I saved your fucking city, I saved your worthless fucking _hide_, and now you're going to shake me down for a few coins out here just to let me _in _this stinking cesspool?"

Cowed, the man backed down. "Alright, alright!" he said, putting his hands up and attempting in vain to shush the enraged man standing before him. "I'll let you in. Just give me a moment to get the gate open!" He couldn't scurry over to the iron-clad wooden portal fast enough, and fumbled with the lock. Returning, he made sure to stay out of arm's reach. "The gate's open now," he said apologetically. "You can go in when you're ready."

Marcus didn't even bother to utter his thanks. He strode through the gate, Benor a few steps after him. Behind him he heard the female guard smirk, "Told you it wouldn't work."

"Shut up," her companion said sourly.

If the guard at the gate put him in a foul mood, what Marcus found inside did little to improve it.

"I had another run-in with the Thieves' Guild today," a painted-faced woman in banded iron said to a young man wearing a brown tunic.

"Be careful, Mjoll!" the man said, genuinely alarmed. "The Thieves' Guild has Maven Black-Briar at their back. One snap of her fingers, and you could end up in Riften Jail…or worse!"

"They represent the reason I'm here, Aerin," the woman, Mjoll, insisted. "I can't just ignore them!"

Aerin's brow furrowed. "I know, I know," he said worriedly. "I just don't want you to leave. You're the only good thing that's happened to this city in a long time."

_Maven Black-Briar. As in, Black-Briar Meadery?_ Marcus wondered. And she was allegedly connected with this 'Thieves' Guild' that had Riften in its grip. Marcus sighed.

_I'm only one Dragonborn, okay?_ he sent up to whatever Powers might be listening.

He pressed on into the heart of Riften, but he didn't get far before a large, brutish man accosted him.

"I don't know you," he rumbled. "You In Riften lookin' for trouble?"

That inner dragon refused to be intimidated by a small change ruffian. "What's it to you?"

The man scowled. "Don't say something you'll regret," he said with a threatening edge to his voice.

"Why?" Marcus scoffed. "I'm not afraid of you." He'd faced down draugrs and dragons. A small-town hood like this jerk was nothing to be concerned about.

"Wrong answer, friend," the guy shot back, with enough sarcasm on the word 'friend' to imply the exact opposite. "Last thing the Black-Briars need is a stranger stickin' their nose where it doesn't belong."

"Yeah, yeah," Marcus said, bored already. He turned to walk away.

"You can pretend not to hear me all you want," the man warned, "but you better stay out of the Black-Briars' business if you know what's good for you!"

Marcus waved a dismissive hand behind him. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, pal," he sneered.

"You think he means it?" Benor asked, a little concerned.

"Oh, I'm sure he means every word," Marcus said. "The real question is: will he follow through on his implied threat? If he does, it will be the biggest mistake of his life."

A canal snaked its way through Riften, filling the air with its pungent odor. Apparently the canal served as both a method of transportation for barges coming in and out of the lake, as well as a sewer for the entire city.

"This place _reeks_," Benor complained. "I've been in barrows that didn't smell this bad!"

"I won't argue that point, my friend," Marcus grimaced. On the other side of the canal, they saw a sign outside a building: _The Bee and Barb._ Marcus pointed, and Benor nodded enthusiastically. As they crossed over a bridge which connected two walkways lining the canal, the two men noticed a Redguard in a heated argument with a young woman in rather distinctive leather armor. It looked nothing like the armor Delphine wore, which seemed to be a more standard style.

"I'm really getting tired of your excuses, Shadr," the woman said. "When you borrowed the money, you said you'd pay it back on time, and for double the usual fee."

The Redguard man, Shadr, looked frantic. "I know I did, Sapphire," he pleaded, "but how was I to know the shipment would get robbed?"

The girl gave a cruel smile. "Next time, keep your plans quieter, and nothing would have happened to it."

_Wait. What? _Marcus paused, already almost out of earshot. He turned back to see the hapless Shadr practically beside himself with frustration and fear.

"What?" Shadr exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you telling me _you_ robbed it? _Why? Why_ are you doing this to me?"

Sapphire appeared unconcerned. "Look, Shadr, last warning. Pay up, or _else_. All I care about is the gold. Everything else is your problem!"

She turned and left Shadr slumped on a bench on the bridge, fear written all over his face. As she passed the two men standing outside the _Bee and Barb,_ she paused to look them up and down, then sneered.

"I don't have any business with either of you," she announced. "So get out of my face."

_Bitch._ How he kept that word from slipping out was a mystery he had no intention of exploring. What mattered now was getting to the root of the issue between Shadr and Sapphire. Benor shook his head in resignation as Marcus told him to go on inside and wait for him, then retraced his steps back to the bridge and sat down next to the young Redguard.

"Huh?" the young man started. He relaxed only a little when he saw that it wasn't Sapphire returning.

"Something on your mind, friend?" Marcus asked kindly.

Shadr nodded miserably. "I owe a great deal of money to someone and I think they cheated me," he confessed. "I don't know what to do."

"Maybe if you tell me about it, I can help you figure something out," the Dragonborn offered.

Shadr seemed to consider this, then shrugged as if realizing he wouldn't be any worse off for it.

"I was able to work out a deal with the stables in Whiterun to sell me some of their tack and harnesses," he explained. "I borrowed money from Sapphire to pay for the shipment, but it got robbed before it even got here. Now Sapphire wants her money back, and if I don't pay her…" he broke off and swallowed hard. "I think she's going to kill me!" he whispered.

So Sapphire stole the shipment, and was still trying to shake poor Shadr down for the money he owed her; money which Marcus guessed would be impossible for the man to pay now, unless he knew enough people who could help him. He rather doubted that would be the case here.

Just the thought of serving up the cold-hearted bitch a dose of her own medicine made up his mind for him. "What if I talk to her?" he offered.

"You will?" Shadr asked incredulously. "Oh, thank you! But—" here he frowned, and the fear was back. "Be careful with Sapphire. She mixes with all sorts of nasty people.

_Not half as nasty as I'll be to her if she doesn't absolve your debt,_ Marcus smiled grimly to himself.

Marcus stepped inside the inn and saw Sapphire right away, leaning against a corner near the staircase. She apparently saw him as well, because her eyes narrowed as he approached.

"Well?" she demanded. "What do _you_ want?"

_The direct approach is always the best,_ he thought.

"You need to let Shadr out of his debt," he said without preamble.

Sapphire snorted. "I knew that stupid kid would try and find a way to weasel out of his debt." She glared at him. "Look, this is really simple: I lent him some gold, he promised to pay it back, and now he says he's broke. End of story."

"Fine then," Marcus murmured, dropping his voice to a dangerously low level. "How about if I take what he owes you out of your hide? We both know this is a set-up. Drop the debt, and you get to live."

Sapphire had had a very hard life, and not much intimidated her, but staring into this Imperial's unearthly amber eyes unnerved her in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. Tales had been drifting into Riften for several weeks now about the return of the dragons, and she had scoffed at them – until today, when one flew over the city and landed outside.

Tales had also been pouring in about the return of the Dragonborn. Sapphire was a Nord; she'd grown up hearing the stories. When reports came in about a man – an Imperial in carved Nordic armor – killing dragons single-handedly and taking their souls, she had discounted them, because they were just stories, and Sapphire only believed in gold, and what she had seen for herself.

Now she was staring into the deadly serious eyes of a living legend, and she told herself the cold, wrenching feeling in her gut had nothing to do with his quiet tone, with his eyes that glittered danger itself, with the fact that his hand rested oh-so-lightly on the dagger at his belt.

Her eyes flicked around the room. There was no one from the Guild here at the moment. She was alone. If any of her Guild brothers and sisters had been present, she might have been foolish enough to call the man's bluff. But something in his eyes told her he wasn't bluffing.

Sapphire was no fool. She'd already made plenty of money selling off the goods she'd stolen from Shadr. Anything above and beyond that was just gravy. It galled her to give up this easy, but her life was worth much more to her than the few coins she might have been able to squeeze out of a stable boy.

"Alright, alright!" she hissed. "I don't know why you'd make such a fuss over a perfect stranger like this, but it's not worth a fight. Tell Shadr he doesn't owe me anything."

The man smiled, and Sapphire shuddered, as it was not a pleasant smile. "I'm delighted you've chosen to see reason," he commented. Then he turned on his heel and left the _Bee and Barb_ through the same door he'd come in by. Sapphire didn't wait. She bolted out the door on the other side of the room.

Shadr had retreated to the relative safety of the stables. Marcus found him not-so-casually hiding in one of the stalls, pretending to groom one of the horses. He jumped nervously when Marcus came in.

"It's just me, Shadr," he smiled. "And don't worry, I persuaded Sapphire to cancel your debt."

"By the Eight!" the young man exclaimed. "You actually talked her into it?" He gave a little dance of glee. "I don't know what to say!" he gushed. "I didn't think anyone in Riften even cared what happened to me!" He danced around a little more, and Marcus watched him with a grin on his face. It was good to see someone so happy.

Finally, the young Redguard sat down on a hay bale and sighed his relief. "I can't thank you enough, my friend," he said. He rummaged in a sack next to the straw and pulled out a potion bottle. "Look," he smiled, "I was saving this, but I want you to have it."

"What is it?" Marcus asked. The only potions he was really familiar with came in little red and green bottles. This one was white.

"It's a potion of invisibility," Shadr explained. "I thought I might need it if Sapphire came for me, but I don't need it now. Thank you again, friend! You've saved my life!"

* * *

><p>Marcus met up with Benor when he returned to the <em>Bee and Barb<em>.

"Saw you talking to that Sapphire a bit ago," Benor said, pushing a mug of cold ale toward his friend. Marcus accepted it gratefully as he sank into the chair opposite the big Nord. "She cut out of here after you left like a bat out of Oblivion. What'd you say to her?"

"Just made her see reason, that's all," Marcus demurred. "Did you find out where we can find this Brynjolf person?"

"Yeah," Benor said. "Most folks around here seem to know him. They don't all like him, but they know him. They said he runs a stall in the marketplace through that door over there. Sells all kinds of stuff, from what I heard, but mainly to the travelers that come through. The locals all think he's a scam artist."

"Delphine said he 'had connections'," Marcus mused. "I guess we'll just have to find out how good those connections are."

The two men finished their drinks and headed for the door leading to the marketplace. Nearby, sitting on a bench, an Imperial dressed in mages' robes looked up from his drink, noticing the two warriors.

"Well, well," he commented, "two warriors out to conquer the world, eh? Name's Marcurio."

Benor snorted, but Marcus just inclined his head.

"Mercenaries?" Marcurio asked. "Treasure-seekers? Why hire a common soldier to protect you when you can have a master of the arcane?"

Hand on the doorknob, Marcus paused and turned back. "You're a mage?"

"A spellsword, actually," Marcurio clarified. "My skill in battle is unmatched. Fortunately for you that skill can be bought."

"How much?" Marcus asked, curious.

"You're not seriously thinking of hiring him, are you?" Benor exclaimed, dismayed.

"And why shouldn't he?" Marcurio demanded. "The only thing better than a powerful mage fighting at your side is…well, nothing, really."

Benor scowled and Marcus chuckled. Marcurio certainly seemed to know how to sell himself.

"How much?" he asked again.

"Five hundred septims, and I'll bring my formidable arcane powers to bear against your foes," the Imperial mage promised, a bit too eagerly. Business must be slow. "What do you say?"

"I'll take it under advisement," Marcus smiled. "I've got a few other irons in the fire right now."

"If you change your mind, seek me out here," Marcurio called after their retreating backs.

Outside once more, with the evening wearing on, Benor and Marcus didn't need to look far to find Brynjolf. He found them first.

"Well, lad," the well-dressed red-haired man said, accosting them. "you haven't done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, have you?"

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: This was a long one, I admit, but I hope you enjoyed it. Next up, Marcus and Benor have to get to Esbern before the Thalmor do, and then it's off to Sky Haven Temple, where there will be a parting of ways. Thanks for staying with me so far!]<em>


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"I beg your pardon?"

The red-haired Nord grinned at Marcus.

"I said you've never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, am I right, lad?" He winked.

This had to be Brynjolf. He fit the description Delphine had given them before they left, and there was no one else he'd met so far in this stinking rat-hole with that Irish-like brogue. "He'll probably call you 'lad', too," she'd said. "It's a quirk of his. Everyone is either a 'lad' or a 'lass' to him." Her eyes had softened, as if remembering something.

"Everything I have, I've earned legitimately," Marcus said now, stiffly.

A pained look crossed Brynjolf's face. "But it looks like you're a bit light on coin, lad," he insisted.

Probably, Marcus thought, but only because he'd left most of it at home. What he had on him was for traveling expenses only.

"I could use some extras hands for something I need done," Brynjolf continued. "And in my line of work, extra hands are well paid."

Well, it couldn't hurt to ask.

"What did you have in mind?" the Dragonborn asked.

"That's the spirit!" Brynjolf beamed. "I'm going to create a diversion, and you're going to steal Madesi's silver ring that he keeps in a strongbox under his stall." He nodded slightly across the marketplace towards an Argonian selling jewelry. "Once you've got it, I want you to plant it in Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing." Here he inclined his head briefly towards a dark elf selling general merchandise.

"_What?_ Marcus hissed. "You want me to _break the law?"_

Brynjolf blinked. Recovering swiftly, he bowed mockingly. "Sorry, lad," he said in a tone that implied he was anything but. "I usually have a nose for these things."

"Delphine said you'd help us find someone," Benor said before Marcus could stop him.

"Oh, Delphine is it?" the red-haired Nord said, eyes narrowing. "She of all people should know I never give away information for free."

"This is really important," Marcus said, persuasively. "The dragons are coming back, and we think this guy might know something about it." He deliberately didn't mention the Thalmor. No sense in spooking the man from helping them.

But Brynjolf had been in his "business" a long time, and it would take more than an appeal to a heart he didn't have to make him give up valuable information for nothing. Especially since he knew exactly who they were looking for, and that the old man had paid the Guild a lot of money to keep his whereabouts unknown.

"Sorry, lad," he said now. "It seems we both want something. You help me, and I'll help you, it's as simple as that."

Damn the man! A crafty look came over Marcus' face. "Dragons are bad for business, you know," he said, playing his trump card, but Brynjolf pulled a fifth ace from the deck.

"Passing on a golden opportunity is worse," he said flatly. "If you change your mind, lad, come and see me again."

Simmering, Marcus turned on his heel and stormed off, Benor in his wake.

"What do we do now?" his Nord companion asked.

"I'm thinking," Marcus said shortly. He blew out a breath. "Delphine said that Esbern might be hiding out in the Ratway," the Dragonborn said quietly, for Benor's ears only. "If we find this Ratway, we might find the old guy."

"How're we gonna do that?"

Marcus smiled grimly. "We ask."

* * *

><p>"I dunno, Drahff," Hewnon Black-Skeever said doubtfully. "They'd skin us alive if they knew we were doin' this."<p>

"Why are you always acting like such a big baby?" Drahff said scathingly. "I've gotten us this far."

"This far?" Hewnon snorted. The big, burly Nord waved around at the dripping, moss-covered walls of the Ratway tunnels. "You said we'd have a house as big as the Black-Briars' by now!"

His thinner companion scowled. "You worry about bashing peoples' heads in," he said firmly. "I'll worry about the Guild, okay?"

Hewnon grumbled, but nodded. "Okay, okay," he sighed finally.

Satisfied, Drahff said, "Good. I'm going to check the entrance to the Ratway. I'll be right back."

Knowing it would take a bit for Drahff to return, Hewnon went back to the corner where his bedroll lay and removed a small pouch of coins, carefully counting them out. Only a score or so. This idea of Drahff's wasn't paying out as quickly as he'd been promised. Intercepting people coming into the Ratway, intent on joining the Thieves' Guild had seemed like a good idea at the time, but they generally had little to no coin on them, and the weapons and armor they carried had little value to them.

Drahff had assured him that they'd be rolling in coin by now, but Hewnon was at the limit of his patience. Unless they got some real money, real soon, he was tempted to go to Brynjolf with the whole scheme and beg him to take him back.

A faint scuffling noise echoed down the tunnels, and Hewnon hastily put his coin pouch away, under the layer of straw beneath his bedroll.

"Drahff?" he called. "'Zat you?"

"Nope," Benor said, coming up behind the lowlife. "It's me." With one fluid motion, the man from Morthal slit Hewnon's throat, leaving him lying in his own spreading pool of blood. Marcus joined him then, wiping his own blade off with a piece of rag torn from Drahff's tunic.

"All clear?" he asked.

"So far," Benor confirmed. They proceeded around the corner and found the way blocked by a raised drawbridge of sorts. They would have to jump down to the lower level and see if they could find a way around it.

The two men wound their way through the maze of tunnels, and eventually emerged in a room on the opposite side of the drawbridge. Taking out the lowlife waiting for them was the work of a few moments only. The unarmored and ill-equipped rabble that inhabited the sewers beneath Riften stood little chance against their heavily armored and better-equipped adversaries.

Only one door remained unexplored, and that led into a large cistern area. Across the water from them, accessed by a stone perimeter walkway was the Ragged Flagon the guard had told them about. A beefy man stood at the "entrance" – though it was really little more than an opening in the wall with a ramp over the cistern. He glared at them and warned them, "Don't start any trouble, or there's gonna _be_ trouble, understand?"

The two companions assured him it was the last thing they wanted, and asked if he knew of an old man hiding out down here.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the bouncer muttered. "You want rumors? Talk to Vekel." He jerked his thumb toward the bartender behind him.

Several other people were loitering about the Flagon; a thin blonde girl sneered at them; a Redguard woman looked them up and down appreciatively before retreating to a wooden platform over the cistern where a hooded figure sat, pensively meditating; a bald man watched them carefully, but advised them to "talk to Brynjolf" if they needed anything.

The bartender, Vekel, seemed the only one willing to talk. Of course, it required greasing his palm first. Marcus gritted his teeth as he handed the coins over.

"You know what? I think I do remember the guy you're talking about," Vekel said thoughtfully as he pocketed the septims. "He's holed up in the Ratway Warrens," he added, nodding towards a corridor ending in a door. "Be careful. You're not the only one looking for him."

_Danger, Will Robinson, danger!_ Marcus managed to keep his face impassive as he asked, as casually as he could, "Who else is asking?"

Vekel shrugged, but it looked more like a shudder. "Dangerous-looking elves who didn't give their names," he said, repressing another shudder. "Draw your own conclusions."

Marcus did, and he didn't like them. The Thalmor were already here! He and Benor would have to proceed with caution.

"And that one, over there," Vekel murmured, for his ears only. He gave a brief nod to a shadowy corner. Huddled against the wall, doing his best to see without being seen was Gissur. Marcus' inner dragon howled. This was the stinking lowlife who had sold out Etienne to the Thalmor!

He strode over to the man, who blinked up at him.

"You," he said, not caring who heard him. "You work for the Thalmor!"

"What?" the man gaped. "Are you insane? No one in their right mind works for the Thalmor!"

"What does that say about you?" Marcus sneered. "You set up your friend Etienne. You told the Thalmor he had information they were looking for. Information they tortured him to get."

The denizens of the Flagon had all gone still, and they were all staring at Gissur now. It wasn't pleasant.

"You're mad!" Gissur exclaimed. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Fortunately, he was tougher than they expected, and didn't break," Marcus went on, relentless. "And when the head torturer Rulindil wouldn't pay you until they got it, you offered your services to extract the information faster. 'I can talk to him,' you said. 'He trusts me.' Isn't that right?"

Gissur's eyes bugged from his head. "How could you possibly—" he breathed, before clamping his mouth shut. "It's all lies," he said loudly. "I don't know you from Dibella's left teat. You're trying to slander me!"

"You _'ave_ been gone a while, Gissur," the bald man said speculatively. "An' you've been askin' questions you shouldn't even know to ask."

"Why don't we get Etienne in here?" the blonde girl smirked, clearly not liking Gissur much. "He just got back, and looks pretty beat up. He wouldn't talk at first, but I bet he could shed some light on this."

At this Gissur dropped his pretense. "He's alive?" he gaped. "But how? Rulindil said—" Cornered, Gissur suddenly lashed out, catching Marcus across the middle with his dagger. It was a deep cut, and burned like fire.

Benor roared and drew his battleaxe before realizing he had little room to swing it here without catching an innocent patron by mistake. He fumed in frustration, but he needn't have worried. Gissur never got far as the bald man, the blonde girl, Vekel and the bouncer all ganged up on him. It was short, ugly and thorough. The Thieves' Guild takes care of its own.

Marcus gasped, pinpoints of light crowding his vision as he felt his limbs go rigid.

"Easy now," the bald man said. "Gissur's blade was poisoned. Sure sign he expected trouble." He held something to Marcus' lips, but the Dragonborn couldn't move his arms to grasp it.

"Jus' drink," the bald man told him. "We've got ya." So Marcus drank, and eventually the paralysis wore off and his vision cleared. Another potion, and the wound sealed itself, but it was still sore and tender.

"Thanks," he breathed.

"You gonna be okay, Marcus?" Benor asked, crouching nearby.

Marcus nodded. "Yeah, I think so. I wasn't expecting that."

"Good," the big Nord rumbled. "'Cause Skyrim needs its Dragonborn alive and whole."

"Dragonborn?" several voices chimed at once, and Marcus shot Benor a sour look, but the big man was totally unaffected by it.

"Yeah, he's the Dragonborn," Benor grinned. "Keeps a low profile, y'know, but I've been traveling with him and seen him take a dragon's soul."

"Sapphire said there was a dragon attack this morning," Vekel offered, impressed. "I didn't believe her at first, but some of the guards were with her and confirmed it." He turned wondering eyes toward Marcus, who was now getting to his feet.

"They said he was an Imperial in carved Nordic armor," Vekel said in awe. "He killed the beast and took its soul!"

Murmurs of appreciation and astonishment surrounded him, and Marcus shifted uncomfortably, but he finally realized he'd better get used to this, if Benor was going to continue to open his mouth about it.

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "I'm the Dragonborn, and I'm looking for a man named Esbern who's said to be hiding out here. I need to find him before the Thalmor do. He's the only one who can tell me why the dragons are returning."

_Well, him and Tamsyn,_ Marcus thought privately, _but since I don't know where Tamsyn is…_

"Then I think this is yours, Dragonborn," Vekel said, with not a little embarrassment, handing him back the coin purse.

"Anyfing you need, Dragonborn," the bald man said, "you just ask. I'm Delvin Mallory, and if I can help you beat the crap out of the Thalmor, just say the word!"

Marcus grinned. "Mister Mallory," he said, shaking the man's hand. "The word is given!"

* * *

><p>The Thalmor never knew what hit them. One moment all was quiet, the next they were systematically being taken out by knives in the dark, a hand across the mouth from behind, and sharp raps to the head followed by cold steel.<p>

Quicker than he'd hoped, Marcus found himself standing in front of an iron door that had a sliding viewport and no less than five locks in it.

Hefid the Deaf had given them little trouble. The crazy old woman spent her day in her hole of a room rattling off a list of random items, starting over every time she got it wrong. She made the mistake of attacking Vex when she felt the impact of so many feet coming her way. Clearly, she must have panicked, and Marcus felt sorry for her death, but Vex shrugged.

"Next time maybe she won't come at me with a knife," she said callously, and Marcus refrained from pointing out that for Hefid, there would be no next time.

Delvin took out Knjakr, an unsavory character who attempted to lure the unwary into his lair, where he butchered them, then fed on them. Marcus was not sorry to see him killed.

Salvianus was left alone. Delvin told Marcus the poor man had served in the Great War, but had been captured by Thalmor. They had broken him, and ever since he had been hiding out here, convinced they Thalmor would return to torture him again. Marcus looked at the man and saw what could have happened to Etienne, if he hadn't intervened.

"They were golden," Salvianus said, eyes lost in the past. "Even when they were dead. But their blood was red. I knew it would be."

Marcus felt nothing but pity for the man, and slipped the coin pouch Vekel had given back to him into the man's night stand unnoticed by all except Delvin, who said nothing.

"We'll go guard the tunnels," Delvin said, as they finished up. "We've got your back."

"Thanks, Delvin," Marcus said sincerely, clasping wrists with the thief. "I appreciate the help."

"We'll send ya the bill," Delvin winked, and Marcus wasn't completely sure the little Breton was joking,

Taking a deep breath now, he knocked on Esbern's door. The viewport slid open.

"Who is it?" a quavering voice demanded. "Go away!"

"Esbern?" Marcus called. "I need to talk to you. The Thalmor know you're here. We've got to get you out of here."

"Oh," the old man said suspiciously. "And I supposed you're going to try to help me, huh?" He snorted. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know. You're probably with the Thalmor, and will lead me right to them. Now go away!"

The viewport slid shut again, and Marcus ground his teeth in frustration. He knocked again. Once more, the port slid open.

"I said go away!" Esbern growled.

"Esbern," Marcus said, doing his level best to keep his voice even. "Delphine sent me. The dragons have returned—"

"Of course they've returned!" the elderly archivist snorted. "That's what I've been trying to warn you people about for years! And now you've captured Delphine. And me, too, if I was foolish enough to believe you!"

"She said to ask you where you were on the thirtieth of Frostfall," Marcus said desperately, before he could close the panel again.

Esbern hesitated. "Thirtieth of Frostfall, eh?" he said quietly. "Yes, yes I do remember." He seemed to come back to himself. "But it's no good, don't you see? It's too late! The dragons have returned. Alduin has returned, and there is nothing that can stop him. The gods have abandoned us. Go climb into a hole somewhere, young man, and wait for the end. It will come, soon enough."

Marcus felt an overwhelming sense of sympathy for the tired old man. He truly believed there was no hope left.

"It's not hopeless, Esbern," he said now, gently. "I'm Dragonborn."

"What?" Esbern stopped sliding the panel and peered out again. "You? But—can it be true? _Dragonborn?"_

The glimmer of joy he dared not give into trembled in his voice, and Marcus felt touched that all of this man's hopes rested on him. He hoped he could live up to the expectations.

Excited now, Esbern bid him wait until he could get the locks open…which took considerable time. Benor grinned at him and shrugged his shoulders until the door finally creaked open.

"Come in, come in, both of you!" Esbern urged. "Thalmor have been spotted in the Ratway you know!"

Marcus rolled his eyes.

Esbern closed the door quickly behind them and dusted off a chair for Marcus to sit upon. Marcus declined, since it seemed to be the only chair in the room. Instead he gestured for Esbern to seat himself.

"So," the old man said delightedly. "The gods have not abandoned us! You really _are_ Dragonborn?"

When Marcus merely nodded, Esbern clapped his hands. "Oh! Thank the Divines! This changes everything!"

"I'm not sure I understand," Marcus said slowly. "What does my being Dragonborn have to do with anything?"

Esbern stopped and stared. "You mean—you mean you don't know?" he asked, shocked.

"I know the dragons are coming back, apparently, after a long hiatus," Marcus said. "I know that I can take their souls, and keep them from coming back…again…but I don't really know why that's so important."

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Esbern frowned. "What more needs to happen before you people wake up and realize? Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said. The Bringer of the End Times; Alduin will destroy the world, and there's nothing we can do to stop him!"

He got up and began pacing back and forth in the small room. Benor pressed himself against the door to stay out of the old Archivist's way.

"I tried to tell them, years ago," Esbern fretted. "They just wouldn't listen to me. And now it's happening and it's hopeless! Alduin will destroy everything. You'd better just find a safe hole to hide in until the end comes."

"Esbern," Marcus said gently, stopping the old man in his tracks with a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's not hopeless. I'm Dragonborn. Just tell me what I need to do."

"Ye-e-ss!" The smile that grew on Esbern's wrinkled face was like the sun coming out after a storm. "Yes, of course! Dragonborn! Oh my, there's so much to do! You must take me to Delphine at once!" he urged. "Quickly now! I just need to gather a few things….can't leave anything here for the Thalmor to find…now where did I put my annotated Annuad?"

Marcus and Benor watched him in amusement as he sorted through his belongings. Marcus found several books Esbern discarded and asked the old Blade if he could take them. Permission was willingly granted.

"Anything here you think you can use, Dragonborn, just help yourself!"

Marcus grinned again and rummaged through the books, finally tucking several into his pack to peruse later.

"Hey, Marcus!" Benor murmured. "I think I'm hearing some fighting out there." He nodded toward the closed door.

"We'd best hurry, then," Esbern said. He heaved a reluctant sigh. "I guess that will have to do. Quickly now!"

When they were prepared, Benor opened the door to see four Thalmor agents battling Delvin, Vex and, surprisingly, Brynjolf, now wearing the same kind of leather armor as the other two. Vex was down on her knees, gasping as she attempted to pull an arrow from her thigh. Delvin and Brynjolf stood over her, blades whirling, trying to fend off magic as well as steel.

"I think I still remember how to do this!" Esbern grinned, and gestured. A warping sound echoed in the chamber, and a large, whirling cyclone of rock and lightning stepped through, targeting the Thalmor mage with its bolts of pure electricity. Marcus was surprised and impressed. There was more to the old man than he thought!

"I'll rip you in half!" Benor roared, taking the steps two at a time and attacking one of the soldiers from behind, who had to parry quickly to avoid being bifurcated.

"Cavalry's here!" Marcus grinned, drawing his bow and targeting anything in gold armor. With the reinforcements, they soon made short work of the Thalmor. Delvin saw to Vex while Brynjolf came over to Marcus.

"Sorry, lad," he said sincerely. "I know I brushed you off earlier, but when I got back to the Guild they told me what happened, and that you were the one who saved Etienne's life. I owed you one."

Marcus nodded and clasped the other man's wrist. "No harm done, really," he said, generously. "I'm glad I was able to save Etienne. He's going to be alright?"

"In time, I think so," Brynjolf smiled. "He learned he's tougher than he thought he was. He'll make a fine th—" Brynjolf broke off, embarrassed.

"Businessman," Marcus finished with a smirk.

"Aye, lad," Bryn chuckled. "That's the word I was looking for. If there's anything else you need, let me know. We look after our own down here."

"But I'm not one of you," Marcus pointed out. "I don't really want to be in your line of work."

"No," Brynjolf agreed. "I can see that now, lad. The Dragonborn shouldn't be in our line of work. Still, sometimes it's nice to have contacts in all quarters, right?"

"I'll take it under advisement," Marcus promised.

They made their way back to the Ragged Flagon, Vex being supported between Brynjolf and Delvin. Marcus, Benor and Esbern thanked the Guild again for its assistance and headed toward the Ratway.

"Watch your step out there, lad," Brynjolf called. "I saw a shady-looking Khajiit hanging around the market earlier. Didn't buy anything; didn't talk to anyone. It's like she was waiting for someone."

Forewarned by Bryn, it was easy to spot the "shady-looking Khajiit" waiting just outside the entrance into the Ratway. Benor and Marcus made swift work in neutralizing her, before dumping her body into the canal; not, however, before liberating her of the note with the seal of the Thalmor Embassy on it.

"_I have good reason to believe the target will be coming to Riften in the next few days. Discretion is preferred, but elimination of the target is of the highest priority. The usual restrictions on exposure are lifted – you will be reassigned outside Skyrim if necessary, without penalty._

"_Don't fail me. – E."_

So, Elenwen thought she could send hired assassins after him, did she? _We'll just see about that._ His inner dragon rumbled approval. It was entirely possible that the assassin was intended for Etienne, but he highly doubted it. If Elenwen wanted a war with the Dragonborn, she was going to get one.

* * *

><p>The trip back to Riverwood was uneventful, though Marcus and Benor kept a constant watch over their shoulders. They had taken the last carriage out of Riften, and Sigaar agreed to drop them off in Riverwood, since it was on his way to Whiterun, but only if they paid the full fare. Benor protested, but Marcus promised to buy him a case of Black-Briar mead if he'd just go along with it. He wanted out of Riften as soon as possible.<p>

They got in to Riverwood just as the sun was coming up and headed immediately for the Sleeping Giant. Inside, Esbern and Delphine met again, after a thirty year absence, and Marcus noticed that both old Blades were blinking very hard, and dabbing at their eyes with a corner of their sleeves.

Delphine cleared her throat. "Come on," she said, leading the way. "I've got a place we can talk." Once safely down in her secret room – which Marcus had the feeling wasn't quite so secret anymore – Delphine spoke to her old friend.

"So, I assume you're aware-?" She left it hanging, gesturing towards Marcus.

"Yes," he breathed. "Dragonborn! This changes everything!" he said excitedly. "I need to show you…oh, where did I put it?" He began patting down all his hidden pockets.

"Esbern," Delphine drawled. Clearly, this was a characteristic of Esbern's of which she was very familiar.

"Just a minute!" he shushed her. "I know I have it here somewhere…the Blades' Archives held so much…I was only able to save a little…" The sadness in his voice went right through Marcus. Here was someone else who had lost much.

"Aha! Here it is!" The old Blade pulled a book from his tunic, _Annals of the Dragonguard,_ and laid it on the table, opening it to a well dog-eared page.

"Right here! It tells how the Akaviri built their greatest creation, Alduin's Wall, at their fortress in the Karthspire, Sky Haven Temple."

Delphine looked at him blankly. "Alduin's Wall? What's that?"

Esbern frowned. "You mean to say you've never heard of Alduin's Wall?" he demanded. "Any of you?"

The three people in the room with him shook their heads.

"Let's pretend we haven't," Delphine said. "What does that have to do with the dragons coming back?"

Esbern rolled his eyes, as if lecturing a particularly thick-headed class of young recruits. Marcus had the distinct feeling, from the way Delphine was squirming, that he wasn't too far off the mark.

"Alduin's Wall was one of the greatest Akaviri feats of the time," he explained patiently. "Though it's forgotten now, it was where the Akaviri wrote down everything they knew about Alduin and the prophecy of the Dragonborn against the forgetfulness of years. A very foresighted plan, as it happens."

"So this Wall will tell us how to defeat him?" Marcus asked eagerly. _Anything_ to give him an edge.

"Perhaps," Esbern allowed. "Its location was lost long ago, but I've found it again. You see? Not lost, just forgotten!" He pointed to a passage in the book:

"_2812: We finally received permission from the Emperor to begin construction of Alduin's Wall. Craftsmen from Temples across the Empire have arrived at Karthspire and begun the great work, overseen by our own Master, as is only fitting, as she is unmatched in her dragonlore…_

"_2818: An auspicious year. Alduin's Wall was finished, a dragon located and slain, and Emperor Reman II visited to officially dedicate the Wall. The Blood Seal was consecrated in the presence of all the Dragonguard of Skyrim, a great honor of which few Temples can boast._

"—_Annals of the Dragonguard."_

Delphine seemed to digest this new bit of information for several minutes before she said, "Right, Sky Haven Temple it is. We can all go there together of split up, your call."

Marcus gave her a steady look. The last time she'd given him the option of traveling together or separately, she'd protested his choice.

"We might as well travel together," he said finally. "Safety in numbers, and all that."

Delphine beamed at him.

The trip out to the Karthspire had the usual hazards of bandits, wildlife and one rogue giant to settle. Remembering what Benor had said about the humongous humanoids, Marcus kept his distance and peppered it with the last of his Dwarven arrows. They finally brought it down, and were able to continue on their way.

They followed the road as far west as the bend near an unopened Dragon mound, where it bent north, and another road spurred off to head west. Now they were in the Reach, and it was the farthest west Marcus had ever been in Skyrim. They had a little trouble near Fort Sungard, which had apparently been taken over by Forsworn. Marcus thought they all looked like European versions of Native Americans, with their skimpy armor made of fur and bone.

"Who _are_ these guys?" he asked, after the first skirmish.

"Forsworn," Benor said. "Natives of the Reach. They don't like the Nords, and will kill them on sight."

"I'm not a Nord," Marcus pointed out.

"They don't make that distinction," Benor shrugged. "Unless you're wearin' animal parts, you're an enemy."

"That's a rather narrow-minded view," Marcus said sourly. "Are we going to have to fight these guys all the way to Sky Haven Temple?"

"I hope not," Esbern said, "but we'd best be prepared, just in case."

Marcus said nothing, but wished he'd been able to stock up on more Dwarven arrows.

"They have little reason to love the Nords," Delphine said. "This land was theirs long before the Nords came to Skyrim. But the Nords see them as little more than savages. They have a history and a culture of their own, however. All they want is their land back."

Put that way, Marcus had quite a bit more sympathy for the natives of the Reach than he might have done, but he still wanted to be able to defend himself, if it came to a fight.

"Where did they come from, originally" he asked now.

"Some believe they're descendants of a mixture of Altmer and Breton peoples," Esbern explained, "who interbred with the indigenous Reachfolk of the First Era. I believe I had a book about them, _The Madmen of the Reach,_ I think it was called."

"Yes," Marcus replied. "It was one of the ones you gave me."

"Ah!" Esbern said, "well, then, everything you would want to know about them should be in that book. There's another one that tells more, _The Legend of Red Eagle,_ but I was never able to get my hands on a copy of that."

"If I find one, I'll bring it to you," Marcus promised. The old man was growing on him. Scatter-brained though he seemed to be at times, he was deadly in a fight with his atronachs and Destruction magic. Marcus at first had stayed close to him, protecting him from harm, but he soon realized it was unnecessary. The old Blade was more than capable of taking care of himself. Respect for him went up several notches. Though he was probably a good twenty years older than Marcus had been in his past life, the Dragonborn felt he could become very close to the wise old Archivist. They both had a deep-rooted love of history.

The sun was almost gone from the sky by the time they reached Old Hroldan. If Marcus had thought Kynesgrove was a "wide spot in the road", Old Hroldan looked as though the road had forgotten it completely. The only thing that it consisted of was an inn, for which the travelers were grateful. The innkeeper was even more so.

"I don't get many visitors," Eydis told them, happily opening up three rooms for them. Esbern and Delphine each took the two smaller rooms. By mutual consent, Marcus and Benor shared the larger one with the double bed.

"Tiber Septim's room," Eydis told them proudly. "He stayed here in this very inn, where he defeated the notorious Witchmen of the Reach, back in the First Era!"

"I can sleep on the floor in a bedroll," Benor offered after Eydis returned to the common room, but Marcus shook his head.

"I'm not into guys," he told his friend. "You're safe from me. Besides, we're both so exhausted that even if you _were_ my type I couldn't get it up with a crowbar."

"You're not helping," Benor grumbled, but after an excellent meal served up by Eydis, everyone agreed to make an early night of it. Marcus noted with some amusement that despite his protests to the contrary, Benor fell asleep quickly and was soon snoring softly.

Unable, despite his fatigue, to sleep with _that_ going on, Marcus remained sitting up with the candle burning softly on the night stand. A book lying there caught his eye, and he began reading _The Battle of Sancre Tor._

He was just getting to the good part, where General Talos and his army were sneaking up on the citadel from behind, having scaled a cliff-face said to be impassable, when he heard a sudden scream from the outer room.

Setting the book aside and grabbing Uthgerd, Marcus dashed into the common room from one side while Delphine rushed in from the other.

"A ghost!" Eydis cried, apron to her face. "I swear I saw the Ghost of Old Hroldan there!" She pointed blindly down to the end of the common room.

As one, Delphine and Marcus turned to look down at the far end of the room. A glimmer of light flickered there briefly before dimming.

Cautiously, the two travelers approached; as they did so, the glimmer grew stronger until it resolved itself into the figure of a man, seated on a bench at the table, apparently waiting for someone.

"_Is that you, Hjalti?"_ he asked before either could speak. _"I've been waiting a long time,"_ the apparition continued, chiding softly. _"You promised we would be sworn brothers if I fought by your side. Give me your sword, that you may fulfil your promise to me."_

"Uh, I'm not—" Marcus began, but Delphine shushed him.

"Where is this sword?" she asked. The ghost appeared not to have heard her, so Marcus repeated the question.

"_Don't you remember, Hjalti? Back at the camp, where we waited before the battle. I'll wait here for you now."_

So saying, the ghost faded from view. Delphine and Marcus looked at each other and shrugged. Returning to Eydis, they asked her about the Ghost, about the sword, and who was Hjalti?

"I've known about the Ghost for a while," Eydis admitted, "but I've never seen him before now. My husband thought he was a soldier in Tiber Septim's army before the battle against the Witchmen. They had a camp not far from here. If you have a map, I can mark it for you."

Marcus produced his map and Eydis considered it carefully before inscribing a small X. "There," she said. "It's right there. That's probably where this sword is that he's looking for."

"And who was Hjalti?" Marcus asked again.

Eydis blinked. "Don't you know?" she asked in surprise. "That was Tiber Septim's name before he _was_ Tiber Septim; before he was even Talos of Atmora, he was known as Hjalti Early-Beard."

Delphine looked at the map. "Serpent's Bluff Redoubt? That's just east of here."

"Could we go there and look for this sword?" Marcus asked.

"We don't have time," the Blade insisted. "We need to get to Sky Haven Temple and find this Alduin's Wall."

"It doesn't look that far away," Marcus argued.

"There's a lot of rugged peaks between here and there, Dragonborn," she said. Eydis' eyes opened wide, and Delphine compressed her lips. She should have just called him by his name. Soon it would be all over the Reach that the Dragonborn had been seen at Old Hroldan. Oh well, there was no hope for it. The sooner they got to Sky Haven Temple, the safer they would all be.

"We don't have time," she said again, shoving the map back at him. "Get some sleep. We leave as soon as the sun is up."

Marcus looked down at the far end of the room where the Ghost had been, but could see nothing.

_Fine. Alduin's Wall first, but then I'm coming back for the sword. At least I can lay one more ghost to rest._

* * *

><p>Marcus really didn't want to fight an entire camp full of Forsworn, so he attempted a more diplomatic approach, using what Faendal, way back in Bleak Falls Barrow, had called the "Voice of the Emperor".<p>

Benor, Esbern and Delphine stayed well back, close enough to help if things got hairy, but far enough not to risk intimidation.

As Marcus approached with hands lowered to his sides, palms outward and empty, he tried to ignore the willies creeping up and down his spine.

"That's far enough," the look-out told him.

"I wish to speak to your leader," Marcus said.

"You'll turn around now, or I'll shoot you where you stand," the woman said.

"I mean you no harm," Marcus insisted. "Let me speak to whoever's in charge. I just want to talk."

He threw everything he had into persuading the woman to put down her bow, and slowly she did.

"Who are you?" the Forsworn Forager demanded. "What name shall I give the Matriarch?"

_Matriarch, eh? _he thought. _Alright, I'll see if I can charm the old biddy. _"I am Marcus, called Dragonborn," he said.

He wasn't prepared for the Hagraven; a bizarre hybrid of bird and woman, she revolted him, but he schooled his features to remain stoic.

"Dragonborn," hissed the Matriarch. "So you've come to find the secrets of the ruins, have you?"

"With your permission," Marcus said, bowing courteously. "I don't want to fight your people, but my destiny lies inside the mountain, and I need the guidance I'll find on Alduin's Wall."

The Matriarch seemed to consider his words, pacing back and forth. "How do I know what you say is true?" she demanded finally. "My people have lived here for centuries, and none of us has ever been able to get inside the inner sanctum."

"I can get inside," Marcus said, with more confidence than he felt. "If you will let us in."

"Us?" the Hagraven said, dangerously.

"My friends and I," he explained, keeping his voice light. "An old man, a Breton woman and my friend, a Nord."

The Hagraven hissed and the rest of the Forsworn put their hands on their weapons.

"Please, please, calm down!" Marcus called, keeping his voice even and his hands at his sides. "He will not draw a weapon on any of you, if you do not offer harm first."

"He is a Nord," the Matriarch insisted. "They hate our kind."

"And he has reason to believe that you hate his," Marcus said. "Please, can't we set this aside, just once? What happened in the Reach between the Reachfolk and the Nord happened a long time ago."

The Hagraven cackled, and it was not a pleasant sound. "For you, perhaps, young Dragonborn," she said savagely. "But for me, and for many of mine, it was within living memory. We remember the Markarth Incident, even if you do not!"

_Markarth Incident?_ Marcus wondered, suddenly nervous. He had been reading history books like a madman. Did this escape his notice?

"Look," he said now, "I promise you that Benor does not want to fight any more than I do. You say you've never been able to get into the inner part of the ruins. What if you sent some of your people in with us? You can see for yourself whatever it is we'll find in there."

"We will think on this matter," the Matriarch said. "Leave us for now. We will inform you of our decision."

Reluctantly, Marcus headed back to his friends. Delphine was not pleased.

"So we, what, just wait out here until they decide to give us an answer?" she fumed. "That might take days or weeks! That's time we don't have!"

"It would be foolish to wade right into a nest of them, though," Esbern said. "Maybe we should be patient just a little longer, Delphine," he advised. "They might come to a decision yet today."

"I'm not lookin' forward to fighting people that just want to get by and live their lives," Benor said, but if they tell us 'no', all bets are off."

"I'd rather do this in a non-violent manner, if it can be helped," Marcus insisted. "Let's wait and see what happens."

And he was prepared to wait for a day or two, except a dragon chose that moment to attack Karthspire Camp.

"Hurry!" Marcus called. "Protect the Matriarch!"

_Not that she needs a lot of protection,_ he mused as the Hagraven sent off a screaming bolt of fire at the dragon. _But maybe it will make a good impression._

It did indeed, as it turned out. The dragon had flamed the Briarhearts sworn to protect the Matriarch, and she suddenly found herself alone staring down the gullet of the elder wyrm. It took a deep breath, and she steeled herself to face its fire when suddenly the young Dragonborn was there in front of her.

"_FUS RO DAH!" _he Shouted, and the beast floundered in mid-air, scrambling for purchase and choking on its own Shout. Clawing its way through the air, it limped over to a bank nearby, crashing to the ground. Marcus leaped after it, Uthgerd drawn. He missed the look of surprise, admiration and cunning in the Matriarch's eyes.

In short order, the elder dragon was dispatched, and Marcus took its soul, to the amazement and awe of the gathered Forsworn. As he opened his eyes to the crowd around him, it parted to allow the Matriarch to come forward.

"So," she said speculatively. "You are not just spinning tales, young Marcus. You truly _are_ Dragonborn."

She looked around at her gathered folk. "Go on back to your businesses," she ordered. "Tend to the wounded. Give the rites to the deceased. We will light their pyres at dusk. The Dragonborn and I have much to discuss."

She turned to Marcus. "Come with me," she rasped, her look including all of his friends as well.

In the end, the Matriarch, who introduced herself as Maiara, and Delphine hammered out a tentative arrangement that would allow the four of them, in addition to any and all Blades in the future, access to the Akaviri ruins within the mountain, in return for a tithe to the encampment. The Forsworn, or 'Reachfolk', as they preferred to think of themselves, had no love for the Thalmor, and took great delight in wiping out the occasional patrol of Aldmeri agents whenever they were foolish enough to cross their territory.

"I cannot speak for all the Redoubts," Maiara warned them. "Only the Reach King can do that, and he has long been away from us. But we will grant you safe passage under the terms agreed to."

Delphine wasn't exactly thrilled about the terms, but knew it was better than she could have hoped for, if they'd had to fight their way through. With Maiara and two of her hand-picked Reachguard in tow, they made their way up to the Karthspire and into the caverns that led to the ruins and Sky Haven Temple.

There were traps and puzzles to negotiate, which one of the guards admitted she had attempted to solve when she was a girl. She'd made it as far as the final chamber, with the huge, carved effigy of Reman Cyrodiil on the wall.

"None of us could get any farther than this," she admitted.

"This is the Blood Seal," Esbern said, standing on it, "so I'm not surprised it thwarted you. It can only be opened by blood. _Your_ blood, Dragonborn," he added, turning to Marcus.

"Would you like me to do the honors, young Dragonborn?" Maiara cackled, flexing her claws.

"Uh, no thanks, Matriarch," Marcus said. "I'm honored, but I think I'd better do this myself."

"Suit yourself," she grinned, and in spite of himself, Marcus found himself returning the grin.

Three drops of his dragon blood fell on the seal from the slice on his palm, and it suddenly began to glow. Everyone gasped as the effigy of Reman Cyrodiil suddenly lifted and drew back, revealing a hidden entrance into Sky Haven Temple.

"Go ahead, Marcus," Delphine said in hushed tones. He noticed she used his name for the first time since he could remember. "You should have the honor of being the first to enter Sky Haven Temple.

Esbern must have thought he'd died and gone to Sovngarde, Marcus grinned to himself. The man kept exclaiming over the bas-reliefs carved everywhere on the walls and pillars of the Temple. And at the far end, flanking one side of a vast chamber, lay Alduin's Wall.

"I never dreamed something like this could be here!" the Matriarch murmured.

"Wow," said Benor in hushed tones. "Look how well-preserved this place is!"

"Does the Wall tell us how to defeat Alduin?" Delphine asked eagerly.

"Patience, Delphine," Esbern murmured, holding his torch closer. "All in good time. The Akaviri told their history in metaphors; they were not a straight-forward people."

He spent several minutes studying the wall, up and down its length, before announcing, "Yes, it's all here." He gestured to the far left end. "Here you see the people fighting against the oppression of the Dragon Priests and their draconian overlords." He moved to the center. "And here you see the First Tongues arrayed against them. Alduin's defeat at the hands of the First Tongues is featured prominently here."

"Does it show what they used against him?" Delphine could barely contain her excitement.

"Yes, yes," Esbern murmured. "You see here, issuing from the mouths of these figures? That's the Akaviri symbol for Shout, but there's no way of telling which Shout they used, or if indeed, it was one exclusive to Alduin himself."

The Breton woman's shoulders slumped. "So we're looking for a Shout, then? Damn it!" She turned to Marcus. "Have you ever heard of a Shout that could knock a dragon from the sky?" she asked.

Marcus shrugged. "I haven't, but maybe the Greybeards know."

"I was afraid of that," Delphine said sourly, watching as Esbern and Maiara put their heads together to discuss some of the other symbols on the Wall.

"Say, just what do you have against the Greybeards?" Marcus asked, his irritation with her returned in full force.

"If they had their way, you'd do nothing but sit up there in their monastery, talking to the Sky all day, or whatever it is they do up there."

"It's not like that, Delphine," Marcus said with an edge to his voice. "They just want to make sure the Voice isn't misused, as Ulfric's done."

"They're so afraid of power, they're afraid to use it themselves!" she argued back. "Think about it: have they tried to stop the civil war, or done anything about Alduin? No. And they're afraid of you, of your power. Trust me, there's no need to be afraid." she continued. "Think of Tiber Septim. Do you think he'd have founded an Empire if he'd listened to the Greybeards?"

_The Greybeards haven't gotten involved in the war because it's not their fight, _ Marcus thought. _They're pacifists, after all._ _And they haven't done anything about the dragons because…because… _Here his loyalty and logic faltered. Why _hadn't _they done anything about the returning dragons? They were far more powerful than he was.

"I'm not afraid of my powers, Delphine," Marcus said hotly. _Maybe I once was, but not anymore. _"And the Greybeards have a point. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." It was an old adage, from another time and place, but it was undeniable truth.

"Only if you don't know how to use it," Delphine countered. Oh, she was really good at playing Devil's Advocate. "All the great heroes have had to learn to use their power. Those that shrank from their destiny….well, you've never heard of them, have you?"

"But I—"

"And there are the villains – those that misused their power, like Ulfric Stormcloak," she pressed on. "There's always a choice, and there's always a risk. But if you live in fear of what might go wrong, you'll end up doing nothing, like the Greybeards up on their mountain."

"I'm not afraid of my powers," he insisted again.

"Good," she smiled, convinced she'd gotten her way. "The Greybeards can teach you a lot," she allowed graciously, "but don't let them turn you away from your destiny. You're Dragonborn, and you're the only one who can stop Alduin. Don't forget it."

She turned back to the Matriarch and Esbern, who were still marveling over the Wall, and Marcus was left to ponder his own conflicting thoughts.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Yes, I departed from canon here, because I have an enormous amount of sympathy for the Forsworn. I think in the long run, this will work better for what Marcus may have to do. No spoilers here. Not from me. Nuh uh.]<em>


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Marcus spent two more days at the Karthspire, exploring the Temple and the Reachfolk camp. Delphine had been right about the native people: they had their own history and culture, and they were a fierce, proud, warrior race. He found himself respecting and appreciating their simple lifestyle more and more. Not that he wanted to join them, of course. He'd worked hard for the creature comforts he did have, and he had a little girl to think about.

But it gave him an opportunity to see the other side of the coin, rather than accept the spoon-fed version that Eydis and many others accepted as gospel.

Matriarch Maiara discussed at length with him her desire to see the Reach as a free and independent Province of the Empire.

"We had it within our grasp, twenty-five years ago," she rasped. "We had our own form of government, our own King who bound us together, and we were at relative peace while the Nords involved themselves with the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion."

"I would have thought you would be allies with the Altmer, in that case," Marcus ventured. The Matriarch frowned.

"They betrayed us!" she hissed. "They promised our King, Madanach, that they would support our claim to a free Reach when they subdued the Empire, but when Emperor Titus Mede II rallied his troops and broke the occupation of the Imperial City at the Battle of the Red Ring, the Dominion withdrew their support and left us to the not-so-tender mercies of the Empire."

"They threw you under the bus – er, carriage, then?" Marcus said.

"Hmmm….a curious metaphor, but accurate," Maiara said. "Yes, they threw us under the carriage. Jarl Igmund's father Hrolfdir, with the support of the Imperials, brought in a militia from outside the Reach to take it back. They secretly promised Ulfric Stormcloak, who was only the son of the Jarl of Windhelm at the time, that he would have free worship of Talos. They hoped the Thalmor would not find out about this."

Knowing the Thalmor, Marcus thought, it was a foolish thing to promise. "But they _did_ find out," he said, more of a statement than a question.

"Indeed they did," the Matriarch replied. "Hrolfdir backed away and claimed he knew nothing about it, that it was all his court's business. Foolish man! The Thalmor ordered Ulfric's arrest and the Jarl threw him into Cidhna Mine – that's a silver mine owned by the Silver-Blood family in Markarth, but it's really a maximum security prison. They say no one escaped Cidhna Mine."

"They did that, even though he was the Jarl's son?" Marcus wondered. "That can't have been taken very well by Ulfric's father."

"It wasn't, and eventually Ulfric was released," Maiara said, shaking her head. "But the damage had already been done to the Reachfolk. Any who were left in Markarth after that 'Incident', as they called it, were either put to the sword, or forced into what amounts to slave labor in the mine." She gave a bitter hiss. "'Incident' my eye!" she spat. "It was a bloody massacre, that's what it was. Innocent men, women and children, all slaughtered simply because they were Reachfolk!"

Marcus compressed his lips; it only bolstered his already low opinion of Ulfric Stormcloak. To be sure he wasn't hearing only one side of the story, Marcus went back to his backpack in the living quarters of the Temple and pulled out the book Esbern had given him, _The "Madmen" of the Reach._ He spent the rest of the morning reading the book and came to the conclusion that history had, indeed, been written by the victors – at least as far as the Forsworn, or Reachfolk, were concerned.

"…_the Nords came and took their lands, their gods, and their culture from them…."_

Much the same way as the Europeans had done to the Native Americans, Marcus thought. He wondered what his old world would have been like if the Europeans had never come to America, or if the Indians had had technology superior to the invaders. He would never know.

Or would he?

As one person, he could do little to help the Reachfolk, but as Dragonborn…? It was certainly worth thinking about. He sighed and put the book away. He had other things he needed to do first. Helping the Reachfolk get their land back was important to him now. Matriarch Maiara and her people had refrained from attacking on sight when they could have put up one hell of a struggle, and they were helping Delphine and Esbern now to get Sky Haven Temple livable again. The dragons were a major concern, and Alduin was chief among them. Everyone suffered from their return. He needed to resolve that problem before he could untangle the issue of social and cultural inequity.

Benor found him as he picked over his midday meal, his mind still on how he could find a Shout that would bring Alduin down.

"Hey, Marcus," the big Nord said. "Have ya got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure, Benor," he replied. "What is it?"

"Well, I've been thinking – and don't get me wrong on this. You know it's been great traveling with you—" His friend broke off, almost embarrassed.

"You splitting up the band, Yoko?" Marcus asked, half grinning, knowing his friend wouldn't get the joke.

"Huh?" Benor frowned.

"Never mind," Marcus chuckled softly. "Say what's on your mind, Benor. You know you can always be honest with me."

"Yeah, I know," the big man nodded. "It's just – I feel bad, but I think I want to stay here."

Marcus didn't answer. Benor wanted to leave? Not go on adventures anymore?

"There's a lot of work to be done here," Benor explained in a rush, "and I feel like I'm finally doing something useful, something good. The Reachfolk here are good people."

Marcus noticed obliquely that his friend didn't say 'Forsworn'. _Convert._

"You want to stay." It was a flat statement.

"Yeah, if it's alright with you?" There was a pleading look in Benor's eyes. He wanted – _needed_ – Marcus to understand how important this was to him.

"What did Delphine and Esbern say? Have you talked to them?"

"Not yet," Benor admitted. "I wanted to put it by you first."

The Dragonborn nodded. He would miss Benor; miss his easy laugh, his fierceness in a pitched fight, his stubborn loyalty. The bond between the two men had become as close as brothers. Never having had a brother before, it was a new feeling for Marcus, one that he jealously guarded. But how could he deny Benor his heart's desire? All the big Nord had ever wanted was a chance to do some good in the world. If he stayed here, he could do that. And Marcus knew he could always come to visit.

Marcus gave an inward sigh. "Let's go talk to them, then," he finally said.

They found Delphine at the long table in the vast common room, papers and books strewn everywhere. She looked up as the two men entered.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" she asked, noting their purposeful manner.

"We were just wondering if this was all there is to the Blades," Marcus took the initiative to say. "Just you and Esbern, I mean."

"We were hunted down by the Thalmor, remember?" Delphine frowned. "It wasn't exactly great for recruitment." She looked around, however, and gave a faint smile. "We have a headquarters of a sort now. We'll rebuild the Blades. Someday." This last was said a bit sadly, as if she wondered whether she would be around to see it restored to its former glory.

"Well, we could start today," Marcus said, shooting a look at Benor, who could barely contain his excitement. "Benor would like to become a Blade."

Delphine looked at the big Nord shrewdly, but not disapprovingly. She'd seen him fight. "Are you sure?" she asked Benor now. "Being a Blade is a life-long commitment. Your loyalty has to be with us once you're in."

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," Benor said fervently.

"Very well," Delphine approved. "I'll give you the official Oath." She cleared her throat and stood at attention. Benor drew himself up stiffly. "The Dragonborn wishes to give you the chance to join the lost guardians of Tamriel, the dragon slayers, the Blades. Do you wish to become a Blade?"

"I do!" Benor said firmly, staring straight ahead.

"Are you willing to trade away all claims and titles of your former life? To live here and devote yourself to protecting Tamriel from danger?" Delphine intoned.

"I am!"

"Then by my right as acting Grand Master, I name you a Blade, with all the privileges, rights, and burdens that brings. Godspeed!"

Benor beamed. Marcus noticed there was nothing in the Oath that stated the Blades served the Dragonborn. He wondered if that was an omission on Delphine's part, or if she'd been stretching the truth earlier to get him to trust her.

"I'm a Blade now!" Benor breathed, ecstatic. "I can hardly believe it!"

Delphine chuckled. "Well, not quite," she said. "We need to get you outfitted properly, as befits a Blade. Come with me, both of you."

She led them through the winding corridors of the Temple to a store room tucked away in the back. Opening the door, she revealed an armory, left behind by the Blades of centuries ago.

"Everything in here is in surprisingly good shape," she said. "With some diligence and hard work, we can get all this equipment back into condition. I've spent the last two days doing practically nothing but this."

She crossed to a row of mannequins which held several unique suits of heavy armor. "Blades armor," she clarified. "Benor, you take that suit there. It's yours now. Keep it in good condition. I _will _be holding routine inspections!"

"Yes ma'am!" Benor bowed.

"Don't bow," Delphine scolded. "Salute, like this." She clasped her right hand into a fist and crossed it to her left shoulder. With feet firmly planted together, she inclined slightly from the waist, ducking her head for a moment. "Now you," she instructed. Benor saluted clumsily, and Delphine quirked a grin. "Work on that, will you? And call me Grand Master, not 'ma'am'."

"Yes ma—I mean, yes, Grand Master," Benor said, saluting. It was better this time.

"Now you need a weapon – a proper Blades weapon," she said, going over to a weapon rack against the opposite wall. It was lined with dozens of the same kind of katana that hung at her side, and Marcus' as well.

"This is an Akaviri dai-katana," she informed them. "When honed by a master it will cut through several practice dummies in one slice. It should cut through your enemies at least as well. I'll show you later how to take care of it."

"I'm not too bad at a forge, if there's one here," Benor said helpfully. Delphine's eyes lit up.

"Excellent!" she exclaimed, delight in her voice for the first time since they'd arrived. "I'll show you where that is. Talk to Esbern. He may have some information and schematics on how the swords and armor were made. If you prove yourself, that may become your responsibility here. But I'll probably still need you to go out and kill dragons," she added, seeing his face fall a bit. Benor perked up, and Marcus hid a smile. The last thing his friend wanted was to be stuck at a forge all day without a chance to get out there and make a difference. As he grew older, he might not mind so much, but for now he still had a young man's fire.

"And now for you, Dragonborn," she said, with a mysterious smile. She led him into a small room off the main Armory where a sword lay on a table, and a chest sat on the floor to one side. "Go ahead," she encouraged him. "Open it."

The chest contained a suit of heavy Blades armor, slightly different in style from the rest of the suits in the main armory. "It's meant for higher ranking officers," Delphine explained. "As the Dragonborn, you're about as high an officer in our outfit as you can get."

"Short of Grand Master, I assume?" Marcus couldn't help asking, nodding toward her own gleaming suit.

"Well, yes," Delphine smirked. "I'm going to assume you won't be here all the time, and there _does _need to be some form of hierarchy here. Besides, except for Esbern, I'm the only one who knows all the Blades tenets and laws. Take the sword with you, too," she added.

"I already have an Akaviri katana," Marcus said. "The one you let me take in Riverwood."

"This one is different," she said with a cryptic smile. "Esbern believes this is Dragonbane, a unique blade wielded by all the Dragonborn throughout the centuries. That it ended up here is a sheer stroke of good fortune."

_That, or some Divine had a hand in its presence here,_ Marcus mused privately. "So what's so special about Dragonbane?" he asked, rather pleased that it had an actual name. He'd named his greatsword Uthgerd, after its former owner, but even to his ears it sounded a bit cliché.

"Dragonbane was said to be most effective against dragons," Delphine told him now. "You may find you'll be able to inflict more damage on them with it. Against other opponents, it was said to deal shock damage. In any case, it needs quicksilver to temper it, and if you're not able to work on enchanted weapons, then you'll just have to wait until you can before you can improve it."

_Duly noted,_ Marcus thought wryly. He could see himself spending an awful lot of time at Adrianne's forge in the near future.

"Thank you," he said now, graciously. "I'll be sure to take good care of them. And thank you for taking on Benor. I'm going to miss traveling with him," he added a bit wistfully.

"We're glad to have him here, Esbern and I," she assured him. "And when you come back with whatever you can find out from the Greybeards, I'm sure Esbern will have located a dragon by then, and we'll send the two of you out together to take care of it. In any case, if you come across anyone else you think might fit in here, bring them to me, and I'll start getting them trained up."

Ah yes, the Greybeards. Marcus wondered what they would think of all this. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach gave him a premonition of trouble to come. He didn't think this was going to end well.

It was at least three weeks before Marcus could screw up his courage to make the trip up to High Hrothgar. He procrastinated. He knew he was doing it, and hated that he was, but he just couldn't help it.

On his way back from Sky Haven Temple he had spoken to Urika, one of the Ravagers who was posted as a look-out. When he told her of his intent to go to Serpent's Bluff Redoubt, she warned him they might not be as lenient as the Karthspire camp in their dealings with him. She taught him a universal sign all Reachfolk used to show non-hostile intent.

"It might not do any good," Urika cautioned. "But it can't hurt, as long as you don't violate the trust by drawing your weapon while negotiating with them."

"What's to prevent them from violating that trust with me?" he asked, concerned.

Urika grinned. "Now you see, that's the kind of suspicion that causes these little incidents all over the Reach." She chuckled, but somehow Marcus didn't find it comforting.

* * *

><p>In the end, his meeting with the Matriarch of Serpent's Bluff Redoubt went better than he expected. Powaqa listened carefully to his story of the Ghost of Old Hroldan, but was reluctant to help him by giving him the sword, which was a treasured possession of hers.<p>

"You come to us with the proper sign of non-hostility," she said, "yet you wish me to give up something that has been in my family's possession for hundreds of years."

"I wouldn't think of asking you to give up a treasured family heirloom without giving up something equally as valuable," Marcus said. "But it means a great deal to me to be able to lay the spirit to rest."

"And why should I care if the spirit of one who slaughtered my people rests uneasily in the Void?" Powaqa demanded shrewdly.

"Because I would do the same for you, if one of your ancestors could find no rest after death," Marcus said simply and honestly.

"Hmmm…" Powaqa rasped. She paced back and forth, feathers ruffling in the slight breeze that had made its way into the Redoubt. "If you are being truthful with me, then you will not hesitate to recover something of mine which was lost."

_Doesn't anyone here do anything out of the goodness of their hearts?_ Marcus wondered. But he schooled his voice to remain neutral as he asked. "What would you ask of me?"

"There is a barrow not far from here," Powaqa said shrewdly. "It has been overrun with vampires. 'Moldering Ruins', the place is known by my people. I lost my staff there not long ago, attempting to clear them out. We lost…several young people that day." She turned her glittering black eyes on him. "Take them out," she hissed ferociously. "Kill all those blood-sucking scum, and recover my staff for me. Do this, and I will give you the sword."

Inwardly Marcus gulped. Lydia had warned him about attempting to clear out vampires alone, or with only a handful of people at his back. He wished she were with him now, or Benor, or both. But Lydia was in Whiterun half a day away, and Benor was busy being trained to be a Blade. He couldn't take his friend away from that. Instinctively, he knew if he asked the Matriarch for back-up, that she would consider him weak, and not worthy of holding to her promise. This was a test; one he had better not fail.

"I'll get your staff for you," he promised.

It wasn't as bad as he thought it might be. Perhaps he was tougher than the Reachfolk, or perhaps his prior experience with vampires had taught him much-needed caution when going up against this kind of undead, but after clearing away the thralls and death hounds – _Who in their right mind breeds such things?_ he wondered – it was a simple matter of sneaking in and taking out the master vampire and his fledgling.

_Not really that simple,_ his inner dragon reminded him. _You still had to drink a cure disease potion._

Alright, fine, he'd gotten bitten, and it had chilled him to the bone, but he'd managed to break free and now the vampire was dead and he was still very much alive. But it had been a close call.

_Too close._ Marcus shuddered at the utter truth of that thought. He found Powaqa's staff in a locked chest in the ruins, as well as a few other valuables that he pocketed to sell later. Returning to the Matriarch, he was pleased to see the look of surprise and consternation on her face. She hadn't expected him to survive.

Skillfully masking her displeasure, Powaqa kept her end of the bargain and presented him with Hjalti's sword. She didn't exactly promise he would always be welcome at Serpent's Bluff Redoubt, but she did allow that they would not attack first if he came again.

He returned with the sword to Old Hroldan Inn and presented it to the Ghost, who thanked him and reminded 'Hjalti' of a technique they used when fighting together. It was a dual-weapon fighting technique that Marcus decided to practice with the Blades sword in one hand and Dragonbane in the other.

He dragged himself into Whiterun late in the evening. The house was dark and all was quiet, so he crept quietly up the stairs and threw himself in bed after removing the Blades armor. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

"Papa! Papa! You're home!" an excited little voice cried. The bed was jouncing around, and Lucia was doing her best to snuggle up to him. Chuckling, he cuddled his daughter close, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"What time is it?" he muttered. "Shouldn't you still be in bed?"

Lucia giggled. "Oh, Papa! It's afternoon! I wanted to wake you sooner, but Lydia said I should let you sleep."

"Afternoon?" he sat up, then realized he was only wearing a loincloth and a loose shirt. "Um, sweetheart? Why don't you head downstairs and see if there's anything to eat while I get dressed, okay?"

"But I've already eaten," Lucia frowned, then her brow cleared. "Oh! You meant for _you!_ Alright, Papa, I'll fix you something to eat!" The little girl launched herself off the bed and hit the floor running.

_Oh, to have that kind of energy again,_ Marcus chuckled to himself. He dressed quickly in the Blades armor. It was easier to put on than his Nordic carved armor, for all that it was heavier, and he felt it would protect him better. Reluctantly, he put the suit of Nordic armor into the chest with the dragon bones and scales. With another sigh, he placed Uthgerd into the chest as well.

He strapped the Blades sword to one hip and rigged Dragonbane in a sheath hanging off his back. Awkward. He'd have to work on drawing two single-handed swords at once. Not for the first time, he remembered his original intention to join the Companions, to get training. Those plans had been derailed for quite some time. Maybe he ought to look into that again, if they would accept the Dragonborn. Somehow he didn't think they'd object too strenuously.

He ate the midday meal Lucia made for him – bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables washed down with milk ("Lydia said I'm not allowed to touch the mead.") – and then invited his daughter outside to put her through her martial arts exercises. She'd been keeping up with them, he noted with satisfaction, and taught her a few more basic moves to incorporate into her routine.

"Papa?" she began when they took a break. "Could I—" she hesitated until he encouraged her to continue. "Could I get a dagger? Just a little one. It doesn't have to be fancy."

"Why do you want a dagger, _chica_?" he asked. He was more concerned than he cared to let on. He loved that Lucia was a sweet, innocent little girl, in spite of the hard life she'd lived before he took her in. By the time his kids were her age, they had already adopted the cynicism of children growing up in the millennium age.

"I just…just wanted to help protect Lydia," she admitted. "A scary man was looking in our windows the other night, and Lydia chased him off. I was afraid he'd hurt her."

_Scary man. Looking in the windows?_ He should have spoken to Lydia before spending time with Lucia, he thought, but that would be easily remedied.

"Do you know how to use a dagger?" he asked.

"Lars has been teaching me some things," she admitted, abashed. "When he comes over, we use the practice dummy in my room."

_Well, the kid just went up a notch in my estimation,_ he thought, though it rankled that he hadn't been here to protect them, and that a ten-year-old had to do his job for him, teaching Lucia a more practical way to defend herself. Marcus was still a firm believer in non-violence where possible, but he was also realistic enough to know it wouldn't always be. And how had he missed the fact there was a practice dummy in her room?

"Here," he told her, handing her the steel dagger he'd enchanted himself. "It's got a frost enchantment on it, so be careful with it. It won't do a lot of damage, but it may help. I'm sorry I didn't think of it before now." _I wanted to keep you innocent for as long as possible,_ he thought sadly.

"Can I – I mean, may I go practice now?" she asked, after hugging him tightly in thanks.

"Sure, go ahead," he told her, watching her run back into the house. _I need to talk with my Housecarl._

"It's true, my Thane," Lydia confirmed. "I didn't get a good look at him, because it was dark. If Lucia hadn't screamed, I don't think I would have seen him at all." She hung her head in shame. "I'm not doing a very good job at protecting your home and family, am I?" She sounded miserable, and while Marcus was upset, it wasn't directed at Lydia.

"Nothing happened this time," he assured her. "And now that you know someone's watching the house, you'll be on alert. But let's not show too much concern around Lucia, okay? I don't want her to live in fear. She needs to know that everything is alright, that her Papa and Lydia have things under control."

"Of course, Thane!" Lydia smiled, relieved. She wouldn't be dismissed after all! He really was a very forgiving man, her Thane.

So Marcus stayed home for the next week, playing and practicing with his daughter, working on his smithing skills – which were coming along nicely, thank you very much – and improving Breezehome. He put a garden in around the back and sides, planting small trees, vegetables and flowers. Lucia helped him, and promised to make sure everything was watered and weeds were pulled when he was away from home.

He installed a trapdoor in the roof in the loft area, with a pull-down ladder and a latch that could only be opened from inside. "Just in case you and Lucia need to get out in a hurry," he told Lydia quietly, and showed her how the rope ladder outside could be tossed over the edge of the roof. He hoped that whoever had been watching the house missed work that day and didn't see them practicing with it.

He finally had a talk with Lucia regarding how she would feel adding a sibling to the family, and Lucia's eyes lit up when he told her about Blaise, in Solitude.

"He's older than you," Marcus told her, "and he'll probably have to share a room with you until I can add on to the house."

"But Papa," Lucia said, perplexed, "where could you add on? There's no room!"

"There's always underground," he grinned.

"Wouldn't it be wet down there?" Lucia frowned.

"The sewers are much further underground than I would have to go to put in rooms down there," he told her. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. But it would probably be noisy, dirty and uncomfortable here until it got done."

"I think I'd like to have a brother," Lucia smiled, snuggling into his arms. "I never had any brothers or sisters."

So it was decided, and on a crisp, cold Sun's Dusk morning, the Dragonborn and his daughter made the trip up to Solitude. They stayed at the Winking Skeever and explored the town the next day. Lucia was enthralled with the Bard's College, and wanted to stay longer to listen to the performers, but Marcus reminded her of their purpose in coming to the capital of Skyrim in the first place. They made their way back down the natural arch to Katla's farm where Blaise was busy polished harnesses.

"Hi there!" he said, not bothering to look up. "If you need a horse, talk to Geimund. If it's work you're looking for, talk to Katla. I can't help you."

"But maybe I can help you," Marcus smiled.

Blaise looked up then, and remembered the tall Imperial who'd helped him with the heavy sack of oats. "It's you!" he exclaimed, setting the harness aside and standing. "Did you need something? I can get Geimund or Katla for you—"

"I came to see you, Blaise," Marcus said, kneeling and drawing Lucia out from behind him where she'd taken refuge, intimidated, now they were actually here. "This is my daughter, Lucia, and we've been talking."

"Talking?" Blaise asked, puzzled. He had no idea where this was going. "About what?"

"We'd like to make you my brother," Lucia said shyly. "If you want to be, that is."

"Your brother?" Blaise repeated, stunned. A faint trace of hope flickered in his eyes before it faded. "You can stop teasing me now," he grumbled. "This isn't funny."

"I'm not teasing, Blaise," Marcus said, reaching out a hand, but not touching the boy. "I'm completely serious. _We_ are completely serious." He patted Lucia's shoulder. "We've talked it over, and we'd very much like to offer you a home and a family, if you're interested."

"_Interested?!" _Blaise whooped. "Yes! YES! Of _course_ I'm interested! You—you really mean it?" he asked, fearfully, as if this one good thing in his life would be suddenly snatched away from him.

"We do, son," Marcus smiled, as Lucia nodded enthusiastically. It felt so good to say that! _Son._ Marcus missed David terribly, and always would, but there was something about Blaise that reminded him of how David used to be, after his emotional issues had been resolved, and before he'd become a man, a husband, and a father in his own right. David had always been a hard-worker, dedicated to his studies in school and his career in economics. Blaise had the same fierce determination about him; he didn't like his life, but he was determined to work hard at it. Well, maybe now he wouldn't have to work _quite_ so hard.

"Yay!" Blaise crowed. "I can't wait to tell Katla good-bye!" he exclaimed as he rushed off to the farmhouse to inform his mistress of the turn of events.

Katla was not happy over losing her free labor, but there was little she could do about it. Blaise chattered like a magpie most of the way to Whiterun, having never really been anywhere in his young life. He drew out Lucia on the way, and soon the two were laughing and joking with each other the entire way home.

"I can't believe this is real," Blaise sighed as he put his belongings – few though they were – into an empty trunk in Lucia's room. Now his room as well, and Marcus realized he'd better start working on expanding Breezehome as soon as possible.

_If I can't build down, there's always up,_ he thought.

He bought the boy new clothes, gave him a dagger similar to Lucia's and went over the speech about Lydia's position in the household and what chores and duties were expected of him if he wanted pocket money. Blaise was so thankful to have a real home and family that it was a week before he realized just exactly who his new Dad was.

"Is it true, Dad?" he asked. "Frothar told me you're the Dragonborn." Blaise liked the Jarl's sons, and after his chores were done, he spent much of his time at Dragonsreach.

"He's right, son," Marcus admitted. "It means I might not always be able to be here with you and Lucia. I may have to go out and fight dragons."

"That's okay, Dad," Blaise said staunchly. "I won't let anything happen to Lucia and Lydia while you're gone. I'll protect them!" Marcus' heart swelled with pride, even while he worried about his growing family's safety. Blaise was twelve, he proudly told his new Dad, but he'd never had a chance to learn how to fight. Judging from the bruises and black eyes he was receiving at Dragonsreach, the Jarl's sons were educating him on that score. But he wanted to make sure his new son was learning to fight properly, and so he spent a few hours each day teaching him tae kwon do as well as the blade techniques he had learned since coming to Skyrim.

They practiced with wooden swords, since that was all Jarl Balgruuf would allow them to use. After two weeks of solid instruction, Blaise was coming home with fewer and fewer bruises.

"I've been watching your boy fight with mine," Jarl Balgruuf told him once when he stopped by to watch them spar. "He's developing an interesting style I've never seen. Your influence, I take it?"

"I hope so," Marcus grinned. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not at all," Balgruuf chuckled. "I think my sons need the refreshing lesson about an opponent who fights back and isn't afraid to defend himself. All the guards' children have been afraid to hurt the Jarl's sons."

"Blaise isn't beating them up too badly, I hope," Marcus asked, concerned. He didn't want his son to become a bully.

"Nothing a few potions and raw steak can't mend," Balgruuf chuckled again, and Marcus relaxed. He knew he liked this man.

Finally, he could put it off no longer. Marcus knew time was wearing on, and he needed to speak to Master Arngeir and the others about a possible Shout that could bring down Alduin. He had the uneasy feeling that they would not think very highly of his association with the Blades. But Delphine's words rang in his ears, and he knew that he could not afford to follow the pacifist lifestyle of the Greybeards. He valued their understanding of the Thu'um, and respected their non-violent way of life, but he was the Dragonborn, the only one who could prevent Alduin from destroying the world. If he sat back and did nothing, as Delphine suggested the Greybeards did, then the Dragon God of Destruction would win.

_And if that happens, why was I brought here to Skyrim in the first place?_

He didn't know which Divine was responsible for his presence here, and by now he really didn't care. If they saw something in him they felt could defeat Alduin, he would have to do his level best to survive long enough, grow strong enough and fight smart enough to succeed. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

* * *

><p>Master Arngeir was <em>not<em> happy, Borri could see that. He didn't need any mystical connection to realize that the spokesman of their Order was barely keeping himself under control. They had all been delighted to see the Dragonborn again, but that delight was short-lived…at least, for Arngeir it was. The young Dovahkiin began asking questions about Dragonrend, the Thu'um that was lost ages ago: a Shout that could knock a dragon out of the air.

They argued back and forth. Arngeir accused the young man of losing his way. The Dragonborn argued back, didn't they want to stop the dragons, stop Alduin from destroying the world? Arngeir callously claimed that if this world must be destroyed in order for the next world to be born then so be it. Well, that was _his_ opinion. _Some of us like living, and would like to continue to do so,_ Borri thought privately.

Then Arngeir demanded that the Dragonborn sever all ties with the Blades who had put him on the wrong path. Look at him, he was already bound to them, accepting their weapons and their armor. And young Marcus had shot back that the Blades were helping him, not keeping secrets from him. Did he know the Shout or not?

No, Arngeir had told him, and unless he returned to the Way of the Voice, he would receive no further help from the Greybeards. That was when Borri felt he had to step in.

"Arngeir," Borri thundered. "Hi dreh ni tinvaak fah pah do mii. Hi dreh ni ofaal wah komaan fos wah mind faal Dovahkiin. Tol los fah Paarthurnax wah komaan." _Arngeir, you do not speak for all of us. You do not get to decide what to teach the Dragonborn. That is for Paarthurnax to decide._

Instantly, Arngeir settled, apologized to the Dragonborn, and agreed to teach him the Shout which would lead him to their Master, Paarthurnax. Borri smiled. It wasn't everyday one got to school one's superior. He'd probably pay for it later with extra meditation. It was a price he was more than willing to pay.

He was the last to leave the Wind Gate before the Dovahkiin passed through it. The young man turned around, and Borri had the sense he was wondering if he'd burned his bridges behind him. He smiled and bowed, then straightened and gave him a "thumbs-up" to let him know it would be alright. The Dragonborn grinned and returned the gesture before taking a deep breath and Shouting.

"_LOK VAH KOOR!"_

Marcus wasn't sure how many times he used that particular Shout, but while it lasted several minutes, it cooled down rapidly, so that he was prepared to Shout again before the biting winds, driving sleet and piercing cold resumed. On and on he went, ever upward. The ice wraiths were troublesome, but only because he didn't have the Flames staff. He remembered Tamsyn shooting fire from her hands, and wondered if he could do the same. He'd never really tried. He'd always relied on his steel to get by. Now was not the time to experiment, however. He needed to get to the summit to speak with this Paarthurnax.

He had heard of this mysterious Greybeard, the leader of their Order, who lived at the summit of the Throat of the World, but how anyone could live in this singularly inhospitable environment was beyond Marcus. He'd thought the winds that swept across Des Moines were strong! He genuinely feared he would be swept off the face of the mountain and his body would never be found. So he kept up the Thu'um, using it again and again, any time the winds threatened to resume.

Arngeir, when Marcus had asked about Paarthurnax, only replied that he was their leader, and very skilled in the Way of the Voice. He gave very little other information, and Marcus supposed there really wasn't much to tell. When you've seen one Greybeard, after all…

But that was hardly fair. The time he'd spent with them before had proven that much. Master Einarth, for example, loved red apples. But only the red ones; he didn't much care for the green ones. Master Wulfgar made the most amazing charcoal sketches. His figures almost seemed to leap off the page. Master Borri had a sense of humor that belied his somber lifestyle. Even Master Arngeir played the flute beautifully. They all had different personalities, as well. Wulfgar tended to be a bit prissy, sometimes, while Einarth seemed driven and dedicated; he spent more time meditating than the others. Borri tended to be very bookish, and Arngeir tried to keep them all in line when little disagreements cropped up.

Marcus already regretted his argument with Arngeir, regretted his heated words. He vowed to make it up to him, to apologize for his temper. It was just that he was so frustrated in his efforts to learn exactly how he was supposed to kill what essentially amounted to a god of destruction.

_How _do_ you kill a god?_ he worried. _Will I ever be strong enough to do it?_

The summit was close, now. It should be just around the next bend. The winds were hurricane force here, and again, he Shouted the Clear Skies Thu'um Master Arngeir had reluctantly taught him, saying it would be their last gift to him. Did that mean they weren't going to tell him where to find other Word Walls? Would he have to rely on this mysterious 'friend'? He hoped not. He still hadn't learned how to breathe fire. What kind of Dragonborn was he, if he couldn't even breathe fire?

Finally, the ground leveled out, and though it looked as though there was still another fifty feet or so to the absolute top of the Throat of the World, Marcus saw several yards away the familiar sight of a curving Word Wall. Eagerly he ran up to it, to see what Thu'um it might give him. He had one soul he was holding in reserve, still unwilling to activate Kyne's Peace yet. But the wall was blank, and he turned away, disappointed.

The ground shook, then, and the leathery flap of wings made him draw his swords. The hugest dragon he had yet seen, except for Alduin himself, landed not far away. His scales were so faded gray they were practically white, and one horn under his chin on the left side was broken.

"_Drem yol lok," _the dragon said before he could move. "Greetings, _wunduniik. _I am Paarthurnax." The dragon eyed him curiously. "Who are you? What brings you to my _strunmah…_my mountain?"

Of all the things he had expected, when told he would have to speak to the leader of the Greybeards, a dragon was not one of them. Moreover, it was the dragon from his dream; the one who had asked, "What is it you seek, Dovahkiin?", and this more than anything else, was what stayed his hand and kept him from attacking outright.

Gulping, Marcus took a deep breath, edging away from the Word Wall, and answered as firmly as he could. _Don't show fear, Marcus. They can sense that._

"I didn't expect you to be a dragon!" he blurted. Inwardly he cringed, and he felt his inner dragon laughing at him mockingly. _Oh, that was brilliant, Dragonborn,_ he sneered at himself.

Paarthurnax didn't seem upset at all. In fact, if a dragon could chuckle, it would sound like the rumbling sound he made now. "I am as my father Akatosh made me," the gray dragon said, "as are you, Dovahkiin. Tell me, why do you seek me? Why do you intrude upon my meditation?"

"I'm looking for a Shout called Dragonrend," he said. "Do you know it? Can you teach it to me?"

"Hmm," the dragon rumbled, but it was not a menacing sound. Rather, it sounded contemplative. _"Drem,"_ he replied. "Patience. There are formalities that must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the _dov_." Paarthurnax stepped heavily around, positioning himself so that he faced the Wall. Snaking his head back toward Marcus, he explained, "By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!"

The dragon took a deep indrawn breath and Shouted at the Wall. _"YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

When the flames subsided, Marcus stepped closer. Now, on the previously unmarked Wall, a series of fiery glyphs appeared. They burned with an inner fire of their own, enveloping and sinking into him.

_YOL. _Fire. Without thinking, Marcus unlocked its meaning with the soul he still held from the dragon he'd killed at Karthspire.

Then Paarthurnax spoke again. "A gift, Dovahkiin. _Yol._ Understand Fire as the _dov_ do!" Just as with Master Arngeir and the others, streams of energy flowed from Paarthurnax as he granted his knowledge of the Word to the Dragonborn. Except the Word wasn't _Yol,_ it was _Toor,_ 'Inferno', the second of the Shout. Eagerly, Marcus embraced it.

"Now, Dovahkiin, greet me not as mortal, but as _dovah!"_

Unafraid to unleash the fire that burned within him, Marcus put every ounce of essence into the Shout. It seemed weak by comparison to Paarthurnax's, but the ancient gray dragon seemed delighted.

"Yes! The Dragon Blood runs strong in you, even if you are a _joor!_ It is long since I have had the pleasure of _tinvaak_ with one of my own kind."

And so they talked: dragon and mortal, albeit a mortal with the soul and blood of a dragon. Marcus understood so much more than he did before about the return of Alduin, Paarthurnax's own brother, about how Alduin had merely been 'banished' way back in the First Age, and how the First Tongues had used an Elder Scroll to send him reeling through the maelstrom of time.

Before he knew it, Marcus found himself telling Paarthurnax everything about himself: who he had been before coming to Skyrim, where he had come from, and how in that place between worlds, Alduin had ripped his wife's soul from him and destroyed it. Paarthurnax lowered his head to the ground in compassion.

"I cannot bring your mate back to you, young Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said, as softly as a _dovah_ could. "And I cannot tell you why you were the one chosen by Akatosh to defeat my brother. Perhaps there is something my father saw in you that you have yet to discover within yourself. The fact that my brother, Alduin, attempted to prevent you from coming to Nirn at all is a sign that he, too, recognizes you as a threat."

"But why did he take Lynne first?" Marcus asked, the pain as raw and fresh now as it was the day he woke up in Skyrim.

"Perhaps he did not mean to," Paarthurnax said. "It is possible that your mate protected you for the few seconds needed to transport your soul into the body you wear now. Perhaps, she gave up her soul so that you might survive. Is this not something she might have done? You would know her better than I."

Marcus considered that. The protective instinct ran strong in Lynne. It always had; a former schoolteacher, she had once managed to get her entire classroom to a safe area before a tornado had struck the elementary school where she worked, leveling it to the ground. The children had emerged from the utility room with scrapes and bruises, but it could have been far worse. Yes. Protecting him would have been second nature to her.

"There's no chance she could have escaped?" he asked quietly.

"I am sorry, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said with genuine regret. "My brother is very…_grunvo…_thorough, in his feedings."

For a long while, Paarthurnax remained there, breathing warm breath across the Dragonborn as he cried his anguish out. He raged, he howled, he pounded the ground, he cursed, he wailed, until finally there was nothing left but shuddering silent sobs with no tears left to express his grief. It was now nearly dark, and Paarthurnax quietly told the Dragonborn to sleep. He would keep watch, and keep him warm. Exhausted and emotionally drained, Marcus did just that.

He awoke in the morning to find he was pressed up against the warm furnace that was Paarthurnax's belly, with one gray wing carefully folded over him. He was stiff and sore from sleeping on the frozen ground all night, but the ancient dragon had kept his promise and kept him warm all night.

_Well, relatively warm,_ he thought, twisting his back to work the kinks out.

"You are feeling better this morning, Dovahkiin?" Paarthurnax rumbled, concerned.

Surprisingly, the answer to that was 'yes', and Marcus assured the leader of the Greybeards that he was once more himself. "I'm sorry for last night—" he began, but the dragon forestalled him.

"You have never had a chance to express your _traas…_your grief, I think," Paarthurnax said. "You have held it inside, because you have needed to be _mul, _strong. But the time has come to let your past go. It cannot be returned to you, and you have a much larger destiny ahead."

"I still don't know about Dragonrend," Marcus said. "You're sure you can't teach me?"

"It is a Thu'um made by the _joorre_, the mortals to whom I taught the Way of the Voice, the First Tongues. They lived in a time of great oppression by the _dov._ And so while they learned from us, they did not trust us. Their inner councils were kept secret from us."

"But what is it about Dragonrend that makes it so effective against dragons?" Marcus asked.

"As I understand it, it was made to make a dragon _feel_ the weight of time: a truly incomprehensible concept to the immortal _dov. _We are intricately linked to the ebb and flow of time, and thus, perhaps, we are more susceptible to the ravages of it. I was not here the day the First Tongues used Dragonrend, but all the _dov_ felt its affect."

Marcus sighed. "So I'm no closer than I was before."

"Dragonrend alone did not send my brother whirling through the vortex of time," Paarthurnax said. "The First Tongues used the _kel, _the Elder Scroll, to propel him out of their age and into yours. If you could find that Elder Scroll, and bring it here, read it at the _tiid-ahraan,_ the Time Wound, then perhaps it would allow you a…a seeing, take you back to the beginning. You would see..feel…Dragonrend, as it was first performed by my friends. Then you would know."

"Where would I find this Elder Scroll then?" Marcus asked. "I'm sure they don't just have them in any general store."

Paarthurnax chuckled. "Indeed not, Dovahkiin. But I have been up here on my _strunmah_ too long. I have lost touch with the world below. You are likely much better versed than I about such matters."

"Master Arngeir might know," Marcus mused. "I need to speak to him anyway."

"Trust your heart, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said as he shook out his wings, raising a flurry of snow. "It will always point you in the right direction." He launched himself into the air, calling out, _"Su'um ahrk morah!"_

The trip down seemed quicker than the trip up. _It always seems that way,_ Marcus thought wryly. In spite of the emotional battering he'd weathered last night, he felt much more at peace than he'd felt in a long time. It was one thing to tell himself he had to let go of his past; it was another thing entirely to actually do it. It had been painful, but nothing worth gaining ever came without pain.

Back at High Hrothgar he found Master Arngeir and first apologized for his tirade the day before, then told him everything that had transpired at the summit – except for his emotional breakdown. That would remain between him and Paarthurnax.

"So now I need to find an Elder Scroll," he said. "I was hoping you could point me in the right direction."

"We have never concerned ourselves with the Scrolls," Arngeir said thoughtfully. "That sort of foolishness has always been the stock in trade of the mages at the College in Winterhold."

Thanking him, and taking his leave of the Greybeards, Marcus descended the Seven Thousand Steps once more with a new destination marked on his map: Winterhold. Hopefully, someone at the Mages' College would either have the Scroll he sought, or be able to take him one step closer. He didn't hold out much hope that it would actually _be_ there. That would have been far too convenient, he was sure, for whatever force was guiding his destiny.

_Akatosh, _he silently prayed, _Talos, if either of you is paying attention, I could sure use some good luck about now._

A tingle ran through him, like goose-bumps all over his skin, and he was quite sure it had nothing to do with the chill wind sweeping off the glaciers. A smile on his lips, he began whistling _The Dragonborn Comes_ as he descended the mountain.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: This one was a tough one to write, since there was a lot of emotional yanking going on here. We'll be getting back to the action very soon, as Marcus makes his way – with the best of intentions – to Winterhold, only to be waylaid along the way. Stay tuned!]<em>


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

The road to Oblivion must be paved with good intentions, Marcus reflected. He had every intention of heading straight to Winterhold, to go to the College and seek out anyone who could tell him about the Elder Scroll he needed to find.

But he barely made it to Ivarstead before he was accosted by someone who seemed bound and determined to take his life. At first, Marcus thought he might be another of those Cultists, who had first attacked Lydia and him after his first trip to High Hrothgar. But the tight-fitting black and red armor was nothing like the loose gold robes they had worn. There was no squid-shaped mask, either; only a cowl in the same black and red leather. Rummaging the body produced a mysterious note in an unfamiliar hand.

"_As instructed, you are to eliminate Marcus by any means necessary. The Black Sacrament has been performed - somebody wants this poor fool dead. We've already received payment for the contract. Failure is not an option. – Astrid"_

_What the fuck?_ Who the hell was Astrid? And who the hell would hire someone to kill him? Well, the only real answer to that was Elenwen. She must be getting desperate. But why send a hired assassin rather than one of her Thalmor toadies to do the job? The more he thought about it, however, the more it made sense. He was currently in Ivarstead, in the Rift. This was a Stormcloak-held Hold, and the Thalmor couldn't move around these parts freely.

Whoever this poor unfortunate sod was who drew the short straw to try and take out the Dragonborn, he'd never report back to his superiors with his either his success or failure – which clearly hadn't been an option for him in the first place.

A sudden chill gripped Marcus' heart. What about his family? Were they still safe? Fear lent wings to his feet, and he made the six-hour trip in five, dragging himself into Whiterun just as the shops were closing. Breezehome looked secure enough, but it wasn't until he'd opened the door and his children greeted him with delight that he finally breathed a sigh of relief.

After a late meal and an evening spent catching up with their days, Marcus forced himself to relax further by playing duets with Lucia on their lutes. Blaise, as it turned out, had a good sense of rhythm, and he kept time beating on a small drum that he'd bought with his pocket money. All in all, it was one of the nicest homecomings Marcus could remember since he'd found himself in Skyrim.

But after the children had gone to bed, he motioned Lydia upstairs and asked her quietly, "Anything happen while I was away?"

"No, my Thane," she assured him. "I haven't seen anyone lurking around the house. There haven't been any strangers coming into town for no purpose, either. It's been very quiet." She gave him a keen look. "Why? What's happened?"

He showed her the note. "What does this mean?" he asked when she blanched and sank into the nearest chair. "What's the 'Black Sacrament'?"

"Gods, no!" Lydia whispered.

"Talk to me, Lydia," he demanded quietly. "What's going on?"

"It's the Dark Brotherhood," she whispered, glancing furtively around the room. "Paid assassins. Someone has taken out a contract against you."

To be fair, he'd probably made enough enemies since his arrival in Skyrim. "Is that all?"

"Is that _all_?" she repeated, horrified. "Don't you understand, my Thane?" When he shook his head blankly, she continued, still in hushed tones. "They are relentless! Once they receive the contract, they don't give up until the target is dead."

"Well, I killed the guy that came at me," Marcus shrugged, "so, end of story, as it happens."

"It's not that simple," Lydia said unhappily. "I said they're relentless. It may take some time for them to realize you've killed the one assigned to you, but they will send another, and another, and another, until they succeed." She tapped the note. "'Failure is not an option,'" she quoted.

Marcus considered this carefully before asking his next question.

"Will they come after you and the children?"

"I don't think so, my Thane," she answered, and he felt a weight lift off his shoulders. "From what I've heard about the Dark Brotherhood, the contract is for the target alone. If we were to get in their way, they wouldn't hesitate to kill us, but they won't come after us if you're not here."

"And the guy looking in the windows?" Marcus asked.

Lydia shrugged. "My guess is that he was trying to see if you were home. It was clumsily done," she added. "The Dark Brotherhood is the 'terror that goes by night'. They get in, take out their intended target, and get out again unseen. Either this fellow was a rank amateur, or—"

"—or he wasn't Dark Brotherhood," Marcus finished for her, nodding.

So he stayed at Breezehome, not wanting to put his children at risk, but also hoping to catch whoever had been sneaking about before.

One thing led to another, and before he knew it, Marcus had more irons in the fire than he could deal with. He began what he called the "Breezehome Improvement Project" and brought workmen in to dig out an expansive cellar, which required shoring up the foundation of the existing home and supporting all the load-bearing walls. It was expensive, and that meant delving into barrows and taking on bounty jobs to raise capital. Some of the barrows gave him new Shouts; some of the bounties gave him dragons to kill.

He also began spending a lot more time with Ysolda, who was learning about the merchant trade. It started innocently enough, acquiring a mammoth tusk for her – _never again! _grumbled his inner dragon – and before he knew it, he was inviting her over for dinner, and spending very late evenings in her company. She was very…accommodating, which was unusual in Skyrim, Marcus was discovering. Nearly all the women he had met so far were either married, or expected a ring on their finger. Ysolda was different; she didn't necessarily want marriage, and that was fine by Marcus, who was still not sure he was ready for that. But the sex was good – _really_ good, in fact – he had to give her that. He hadn't realized just how long he'd been without until he starting seeing Ysolda.

Lucia didn't like her. It was an old grudge that went back to when she was still begging on the streets; Ysolda, apparently, had never been kind to her, and not just for the lack of charity. She had often insulted the little girl, calling her a 'filthy beggar'; when Ysolda began visiting Breezehome and realized the 'filthy beggar' was now daughter to her lover, she put on a fake smile and tried to make up to the child, but Lucia was smarter than that, and refused to be won over.

"She doesn't smile with her eyes, Papa," was all Marcus could get out of her.

Blaise had never met Ysolda before, though he'd seen her in the market on his way to Dragonsreach, but even he wasn't sure how he felt about the woman.

"She makes me feel…funny," he told Marcus. "I can't explain how."

Marcus knew how. He'd been a hormonal twelve-year-old once, long ago.

He might have tried to reconcile his children to Ysolda if he'd had any intention of making their relationship more permanent, but a chance bounty from Jarl Balgruuf threw any notion of that out the window.

* * *

><p>Ysolda looked up from her book and smiled as Marcus entered that evening. "Hello, my love!" she greeted him warmly. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon." She rose and crossed the room to kiss him, but he pulled back. Instinctively sensing something wrong, Ysolda frowned.<p>

"What is it?" she asked. "What's happened?"

"Care to explain this?" he gritted, pushing the note in her hands. She opened it and immediately saw her own handwriting.

"_Don't try to stiff me on this deal, Ulag._

_I can talk the Khajiit caravans into a better price than you'd be able to, and the guards are still looking for you after that little skooma incident. Just bring the sap to my stall in Whiterun like we discussed._

_-Ysolda"_

"Where did you get this?" she asked automatically, though it was already apparent to her how it had come into her lover's hands.

"Ulag's dead," Marcus said shortly.

_Damn! There goes my source for the Sap!_ Still, the situation might yet be salvageable. "So, you know about my little set-up, then," Ysolda said. "It's not as bad as you think, you know."

"You're a damned drug-dealer!" he snarled.

"Just a little Sleeping Tree Sap," she insisted, recoiling a bit from his ferocity, and hoping he wouldn't find out about the skooma. "It's not like I'm hurting anyone. It's not illegal, you know."

"According to Arcadia, it ought to be," Marcus countered.

"Arcadia!" Ysolda spat. "That sanctimonious bitch has no idea what she's talking about."

It was the wrong tactic to take, and she knew it the moment she said it. Marcus' mouth – that marvelous mouth that made her squirm, squeal and scream in ecstasy – was compressed to a hard, thin line.

"She's an alchemist, Ysolda," Marcus snapped. "I think she knows what she's saying. And she also told me about this." He walked over to her nightstand and opened the drawer, pulling out several small, purple and green bottles. He had seen the bottles there, a week before, on top of the cloth they used for cleaning up after sex. At the time, when he asked, she told him they were potions to help prevent her from becoming with child.

"Sleeping Tree Sap might not be illegal, Ysolda, but skooma is."

There was no chance of lying about it. He knew too much now. "Look, I only sell a few bottles to the Khajiit traders when they come around," she protested. It was falling apart all around her. She had to pull this together somehow or she was ruined.

"It's not like I'm actually hurting anyone," she repeated, trying to reason with him. "The riff-raff that uses that stuff are people nobody cares about."

"_It ruins people's lives!"_ he stormed, and the small house shook with the force of his voice. "They might not be the cream of society _now,_ but only because this stuff steals their _future!"_

_Andrea, _he thought bleakly. Ysolda would never know how much pain and anguish his daughter had caused Lynne and him while she tried to get clean. Would she fall back into it, now that he wasn't there? "This stuff is illegal for a _reason!" _he shouted at her now.

"Darling, nobody needs to know about this," Ysolda begged him. "It can be our little secret. You know where the Tree is now; you can get the Sap for me! I'll give you a good cut!"

Wrong tactic, and she knew it when she saw the look on his face – a look of complete horror and disgust. "And to think I was actually attracted to you," he muttered, crossing to the door and pulling it open. "You heard everything?" he asked Jarl Balgruuf heavily.

"Aye, Dragonborn, we did," the Jarl said, Farengar and several guards right behind him. The door still glowed with whatever spell the mage had used to allow them to hear through it. "You're to come with us, Ysolda," her lord told her. "You've committed crimes against my Hold and my people. You'll be spending a long time in the Dragonsreach Jail."

Ysolda looked as though she would have said something, but instead lifted her chin and crossed to the door. She only looked at Marcus once, to spit in his face, then left with the Whiterun guards and Farengar in escort.

Marcus wiped his face.

"I'm sorry, Dragonborn," Balgruuf said sympathetically. "I know you two had been seeing each other."

"I guess I didn't know her as well as I thought," Marcus said, shoulders slumping. The final scene from _The Maltese Falcon_ kept playing through his mind, when Sam Spade sent Brigette O'Shaunessey up the river for her crimes, in spite of feeling attracted to her.

He'd returned home and threw himself into his construction project. And while he tried to immerse himself in his home and family, in the jobs he took on for the Jarl and in making himself stronger, the knowledge lingered that he needed to get himself up to Winterhold and find out about the Elder Scroll.

He returned to Sky Haven Temple and informed Esbern and Delphine where the situation stood. He went out with Benor to kill the dragons Esbern had been able to locate, then returned home to throw himself back into the house project.

It was coming along well. Expanding downward enabled him to install private quarters for Lydia, an additional privy connected to the sewers under Whiterun – an engineering nightmare in and of itself – and his own den and trophy room to display some of the armor and weapons he'd picked up in his adventures that he wasn't quite willing to part with, though he knew he'd never use them.

He'd thought about putting in his own alchemy lab and enchanter's table, but he really didn't do very much along those lines, and felt it would be a wasted effort. With Warmaiden's right next door, and the logistical nightmare installing his own forge would have involved, he passed on his own smithy as well.

The upstairs area was also remodeled, bumping out the side walls – another engineering nightmare – to provide additional square footage and giving him the ability to put in two bedrooms where Lydia's old quarters and the loft had been. His own master bedroom was enhanced with a balcony that opened out onto the street, where he could sit and read on a fine evening. It would have been a great place for morning coffee, too, he thought wistfully, if only Skyrim had coffee.

Before he realized it, Sun's Dawn had come and gone, and the weather was starting to get warmer. _Well, warmer for Skyrim, anyway,_ he mused. He could put it off no longer. The house still had a lot of finish work to do, but his nest egg was comfortable again and Lydia promised she could manage to day-to-day while he was gone.

"I don't know how long this will take," he told Lucia and Blaise. "I might be gone for several days, maybe even a couple of weeks."

"We'll be alright, Dad," Blaise assured him.

"I'll miss you, Papa!" Lucia sniffled.

They'd been spoiled, having him around all the time, he felt. He hated to tear himself away, though Lucia certainly seemed happier now that Ysolda was no longer coming around. It still rankled, to have been taken in so completely by her ample charms, and he vowed not to allow himself to be sucked in so gullibly in the future. But there were still times, late into the night, when he remembered the passion they'd shared, and only a cold splash of water from the bowl on the nightstand cooled the fire he felt inside.

He left final instructions with Lydia concerning the house and the children, then made his way down to the stables to catch the next carriage to Winterhold. Bjorlam promised to take him there, but warned him it would be a one-way trip: Winterhold had no stable. If he intended to stay long, he'd have to find his own way back.

Bjorlam laid over in Windhelm for a few hours to rest Gerduin before making the final push to Winterhold, but it was already late in the evening. Deciding instead to stay the night in Windhelm, Marcus told the carriage driver to head on back to Whiterun after all.

"No refunds," Bjorlam said firmly. It only cost twenty septims to travel from Whiterun to Windhelm, but it was thirty to go all the way to Winterhold, due to the lack of a stable. Marcus sighed and nodded. He'd be out the thirty septims, but felt he could afford it. Besides, there was a carriage service in Windhelm, and Alfarinn assured Marcus he could take him to Winterhold in the morning…for fifty septims.

_Highway robbery,_ Marcus groused as he made his way to the Candlehearth Inn for what was left of the night. _It's not like he has to schlepp me up there from Riften or Whiterun!_

The Candlehearth was crowded, and full of Stormcloaks. Marcus felt alarmingly conspicuous, even though he wore his Blades armor, and not an Imperial cuirass. But he might as well have stood on the steps of the Palace of the Kings and shouted "Ulfric Stormcloak is a loser!" for the suspicious looks being thrown his way.

He paid for his room and was shown to it by a sour-faced woman named Elda Early-Dawn. "Try not to break anything," she scowled as she left.

_Pleasant dreams to you, too,_ Marcus chuckled to himself. He slept well, and in the morning broke his fast and decided to explore the city before moving on to Winterhold. Alfarinn had told him it would take six hours, so he felt he had at least some time to kill.

The city was ancient and crumbling. Loose stones were piled In the streets everywhere, in stark contrast to Solitude, which had been clean and well-kept. Indeed, when he first walked in through the gates the night before, he saw two drunken louts threatening a Dunmer woman. He'd broken it up quickly enough and sent them on their way, but even the woman had seemed suspicious of his motives.

"Do you hate the Dunmer, too?" she had demanded.

"No," Marcus replied, surprised. Hadn't he just done her a favor in rousting those ruffians? "I don't hate your people."

"Then you've come to the wrong city, my friend," she said dismally. "These Nords don't tolerate anyone who isn't like them."

Now, wandering around, he could see this had the uncomfortable ring of truth about it. Most of the Dunmer were crowded into the poorest section of town, called the 'Grey Quarter.' They worked hard but seemed to receive only abuse from the Nords who lived here, who called them 'lazy and shiftless'. Marcus didn't see any indication of that.

Most of the businesses seemed to be in what was known as the 'Stone Quarter', and here he found an open market, similar to Whiterun's or Riften's, as well as a smith and apothecary shop. Beyond the Stone Quarter, heading up to the Palace of the Kings, was Valunstrad, the Avenue of Valor, which was comprised of several residential buildings as well as a Temple to Talos and a graveyard.

It was while passing through the graveyard that Marcus saw the collection of people surrounding a body; a body that had been brutally and precisely butchered.

"Stay back!" the guard warned him. "There's nothing to see here. We've got it all under control."

"What happened?" Marcus asked, aghast.

"Susanna the Wicked, she was known as," the woman told him. "She worked at the Candlehearth Hall." Marcus dimly remembered seeing her come down the stairs the night before as Elda was showing him to his room.

"Any idea who did this?" he asked now.

There was a slight hesitation before the guard answered him that he didn't miss. "I really shouldn't say anything," she muttered. "It's all just rumors, anyway."

"Rumors of what?"

The woman leaned closer, a bit disconcerting, given the fact she wore a closed helm. "The Butcher!" she whispered. "This isn't his first victim!"

"So what's being done about it?" Marcus frowned.

"Hey, we're spread thin enough as it is with the war going on," she said, more than a little on the defensive. "If you think you're so good at solving mysteries, maybe you'd like to try your hand!"

_Ding! She said 'mystery'! _his inner dragon said smugly.

Rallying all the charm he could muster, Marcus smiled. "How can I help?" he asked.

"Well," the guard said, dubious. "You can start by questioning these witnesses." She indicated the priestess who was tending to the body, a finely-dressed old man, and a woman in rags.

Helgird, the priestess of Arkay, was the one who had found the body early in the morning when she came out to perform her supplication rites for the souls of the dead. She could only tell him that robbery did not seem to be the motive. "Her coin purse is still lying there," she pointed out. "And these incisions were done…well, I would almost say 'professionally', as if the murderer knew exactly what they wanted from the body."

She lifted an arm on the corpse. "See here? These tendons were removed, all the way back to the connective tissues."

"There's not enough blood for that to have been done out here," Marcus commented. He'd watched enough detective shows on television to figure out the body had been murdered elsewhere and dumped here.

"Very observant of you, young man!" Helgird said approvingly. "I haven't finished my examination of the body yet. I'm just preparing to move it to the Hall of the Dead now. Come see me later, and I might have more information for you."

Marcus promised he would and turned his attention to the other two witnesses. The older woman in ragged clothing was known as Silda the Unseen; she was a beggar.

"I can't tell you very much," she rasped. "I heard a scream very late last night, but it wasn't repeated. When I came around here this morning, poor Susanna was already lying there."

"You didn't see anything else?" Marcus pressed.

"With the Butcher in our midst, I try not to stray from the public places," Silda said. "I'm just a poor old woman, with nowhere to go."

_She probably has a penthouse apartment and drives a Cadillac,_ Marcus thought privately. Some people made a decent living at begging; better than they could have achieved if they worked their asses off in a nine-to-five job. He slipped her a coin anyway and let her go with a request to come to him if she saw or heard anything else; he'd be staying at the Candlehearth until further notice.

The last witness was an elderly, well-dressed man named Callixto Corrium. An Imperial, like Marcus was now, he sighed, "Always a tragedy when someone has to die," but could provide little in the way of information. "I saw a fellow running away," he said helpfully, "but I'm afraid I didn't get a good look at him. It was dark, you know."

_Didn't think I'd get anything useful,_ Marcus thought sourly. He reported back to the guard who sighed and shook her head.

"Thanks for the help," she said. "We'll take it from here."

"What, that's it?" Marcus said. "Are you going to follow up on clues?"

"What clues?" the woman shot back scornfully. "We've already determined that 'nobody saw anything.' There isn't much else to go on."

"So you're just going to let it go?"

"I don't have a choice!" the woman replied helplessly. "I told you, we don't have the manpower. But I can't have you blundering around, getting in the way. If you want to help, talk to Jorleif. He's the Steward up at the Palace. If he says it's okay for you to help out, then you'll have my cooperation, as much as I can give. My name is Anka," she added. "Ask for me if Jorleif gives you permission."

"I'll do that," Marcus said firmly, and strode off towards the Palace.

He introduced himself to the Steward, refraining from using his status as 'Dragonborn', and simply said he was 'Marcus of Whiterun.' He didn't necessarily want Ulfric Stormcloak to know he was in town.

"Another one?!" Jorleif exclaimed, shocked, when Marcus told him of the events that had transpired.

"Wait," Marcus said shrewdly. "Just how many have there been?"

"This would make the third murder," Jorleif sighed in frustration. "I don't know what to do about it. I can't spare anyone else to look into it."

"I could help," Marcus offered. "I like to think I'm pretty good at sorting out mysteries."

"Anything you can do to help would be appreciated, Marcus," Jorleif told him gratefully. "I'll notify the guards that you're on the case. You'll have our full cooperation."

Thanking the frazzled Steward, Marcus accepted the writ which gave him clearance to the crime scene and permission to investigate, then headed back to the Candlehearth for his midday meal. The locals still kept to themselves, but that was fine by him. He had a lot on his mind.

Someone had killed Susanna and dismembered her body to get at vital tissues and organs, that much was clear. From what Jorleif had told him, this was not the first time it had happened, but was too busy, or too reluctant, to go into detail about the two previous murders.

_Honestly, you'd think Ulfric would sit up and take notice,_ he thought with some disgust. People were being butchered like sheep in his town, and he did nothing to try and get to the root of it. It's not like Windhelm was the size of Chicago or New York, where law enforcement was stretched to the breaking point to deal with the crime. But he supposed it was all relative; the crime rate in Windhelm certainly couldn't match Riften, and that was a much smaller town.

Over in the corner, an Imperial sat with books and papers strewn across his table. He was writing, but occasionally looked up to catch Marcus staring at him.

"Something on your mind, countryman?" the man asked.

Marcus was embarrassed. He hadn't meant to stare. He'd just been busy with his own thoughts.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I guess I didn't realize—"

"Not at all," the man said pleasantly. "It isn't often I get the pleasure of company from someone of my own Province. Where are you from? Bruma? Cheydinhall? Or perhaps Cyrodiil itself?"

"I – uh—"

"Oh, never mind," the man smiled. "It doesn't really matter, anyway. Come, sit here with me. My name is Adonato Leotelli. Perhaps you've heard of me?" There was a note of eagerness in his voice that Marcus couldn't fail to miss.

"I don't think—"

"I wrote _Olaf and the Dragon, _as well as _Ghosts in the Storm,"_ Adonato continued as if Marcus hadn't spoken. "They were both very well received, and I'm working on my next novel. Tell me what you think of this title: _The Life and Adventures of the Dragonborn._ Pretty good, huh? I'm sure it will sell a lot of copies. Not that the people of Skyrim do much reading."

Marcus almost did a spit-take when Adonato mentioned the title of his new book, but he recovered quickly, and the writer was speaking so rapidly, he didn't think the man noticed.

"What kinds of books do you write?" Marcus asked, with some reserve. This man was attempting to write a book about _him?_ Without even asking permission or interviewing him?

His inner dragon grumbled, but Marcus suppressed the feeling. Adonato clearly had no idea to whom he was speaking, and Marcus preferred it that way. If the book got in the way of Marcus being able to do what he'd been brought here to do, then he would say something.

Adonato was replying to Marcus' question, and he forced himself back to the present.

"I write drama, my friend," the Imperial said now. "The legends and history of Skyrim made to excite and inspire. Do you know any tales of nobility and courage? I'm keen to record them. Now more than ever, the world needs tales of heroism."

"And what have you written about the Dragonborn?" Marcus asked guilelessly.

"Well, that's the problem," Adonato frowned. "It's difficult to find out much about the man. I keep hearing conflicting reports. Some say he's a Nord hero, but others say he's Breton or Imperial. I heard one report that said he was an Argonian, if you can believe it, and another that said he was actually a she; a mage from the College of Winterhold. I suppose that's not completely out of the realm of possibility."

Marcus nodded agreement, then asked, "What do you know of the murders that have been committed here in Windhelm?"

Adonato sighed. "That's such a bad business," he said sadly. "I still can't believe Isabella's gone. She used to work here too, before Susanna, and now _she's _gone as well."

"Who was the third victim?"

"Well, technically, Susanna was the third," Adonato said. "Isabella was the first. The second was Friga Shatter-Shield. She was the daughter of the Shatter-Shield clan here in town; quite important people. Her mother, Tova, is in deep mourning, and her twin sister, Nilsine is barely coping. I've seen Torbjorn in here every night, hoping the mead will ease his suffering."

"Torbjorn?"

"The father. He'd bought the house for Friga not that long ago. Hjerim. Grand old house right next to theirs up on the Avenue. I suppose he hoped that if she had a place of her own, some young man might come along asking for her hand. She was the elder of the two girls, though not by much."

Marcus digested this information.

"And they were all killed by this 'Butcher'?"

"That's what everyone is saying," Adonato confirmed. "Isabella and Susanna was found early in the morning by Helgird in the cemetery. Rather suspicious, if you ask me. Friga was murdered in her own home! And the way they were murdered!" Here Adonato shivered. "Body parts being removed like that! Who would know better how to do that than someone who handles the dead all day long?"

Marcus thanked the man and took his leave.

"If you hear any stories about the Dragonborn, be sure to come and let me know!" Adonato called after him.

_Not in this lifetime, or the next,_ his dragon rumbled. Marcus could only agree.

Not having any appetite left for the remainder of his lunch, Marcus headed back to the crime scene. By now the guards must have been notified of his status, and indeed, the female guard he'd seen earlier in the day greeted him. At least, he thought she was the same. With the helmet on, it was difficult to tell.

"Is that you, Anka?" he asked. "Do you think you could take your helmet off while we talk? I mean, it's rather disconcerting talking to a wall of steel."

Anka gave a low chuckle and obliged by pulling off her helm.

"Damn thing gets hot under there anyway," she grinned. Dark brown hair was cut close to her head, but it still didn't prevent 'helmet-hair.' Her gray eyes were serious, though, as she explained, "Helgird removed the body about an hour ago and took it to the Hall of the Dead." She pointed it out to Marcus at the far end of the cemetery, under the wall which formed one side of the Temple to Talos.

"I've been looking around the scene," Anka continued, "and I found a trail of blood that leads to here. It starts somewhere up there, but I couldn't leave the scene to follow it."

"That's alright," Marcus told her. "I'll see what I can find out."

The blood trail was spotty at best, as if someone had tried to contain the amount of blood within the body, but had failed to keep it all from dripping. Marcus carefully examined the ground as the trail wound in a relatively straight line across the graveyard, up the steps and down the cobbled street. Guards passed by, looking at him, curiously crouched over, searching until he found the next blood spot.

At one point, one guard snarled, "Hands to yourself, sneak thief!" and Marcus' inner dragon toyed with various ways to make him pay for his insolence.

_Not now!_ Marcus said firmly.

_Later?_

_No, not later, either! Let it pass._

Grumbling, the dragon subsided once more, but definitely made its displeasure known.

The trail eventually led across the Avenue of Valor into the residential section where it ended in a very fine house, situated at the end of a cul-de-sac.

"Who owns this house?" Marcus asked a passing guard; not the one who had insulted him earlier.

"That house?" the man shuddered. "That's Hjerim! That's where Friga Shatter-Shield was murdered by the Butcher! Her family locked it up tight after she died. I suppose it belongs to them, but they don't use it now."

"So they would have the key, then?"

"Doing your investigating, are you?" the guard queried, scratching his head under the horned, open-faced helmet he wore. "Yes, I supposed they would have the key. You'd have to talk to them if you want to get in there." He shuddered again. "You couldn't pay me enough septims to go into that place! There've been screams heard there. They say the ghost of Friga haunts the place."

_Or perhaps the Butcher has been at work again,_ Marcus thought, more determined than ever to get a look inside. If this was Hjerim, then the Shatter-Shield home was right next door. He knocked, but there was no answer. They must all be away. Giving a frustrated sigh, he decided to see if Helgird had learned anything new in the last few hours.

She greeted him warmly when he finally found her in the catacombs.

"Welcome to the Hall of the Dead," she grinned. "Someday you may end up here." When he didn't respond, she chuckled softly, "That's a little graveside humor for you. What can I do for you, young Marcus?"

"Well, I wanted to see how you were coming along with your autopsy," he said.

"Is that what they call it in Cyrodiil?" Helgird snorted. "Fancy name for examinating a body."

"This is what you do all day, then?" Marcus asked with genuine curiosity. He'd never been in a coroner's room before, but he'd seen several in the detective shows he used to watch. He gently touched the stone slab, the cruel-looking instruments lined up on a side table. He'd seen similar tools in the barrows he'd crawled through. He was prepared for the sight of mutilated bodies, even if he hadn't spent the last few months creating a few of them in his own way.

Helgird shrugged. "My job's simple enough. The dead don't really complain much."

"Try telling that to Andurs," Marcus grinned, and told Helgird how he'd had to retrieve the priest's amulet for him in Whiterun.

Helgird chuckled. "I guess I'm pretty lucky, then. Haven't had that happen here."

"So tell me what you've discovered," Marcus said.

"Well, there's a large, diagonal cut from the left shoulder to here," she showed him. "Someone wanted to remove the heart and the lungs, but they had to open the ribcage to do that. You can see where this side has been sawn through."

"Sawn?" Marcus said in surprise. "Not just broken open?"

"No," Helgird said. "Whoever it was wanted the organs as intact as possible."

"Anything else that's unusual about the body?"

"Well, she's dead," Helgird grinned. "But I guess that's not unusual, at least not for somebody in here. I mean, someone who's not me, that is." Again, at his shocked look she shook her head and said, "Sorry, I was only joking with you. I thought you'd understand. You're different from the usual people that come through here. Most would rather not know what I do."

"I am different," Marcus admitted wryly. "More than you can know. I guess I was just shocked because, after all, Susanna was alive and living and breathing just yesterday."

"And now she's dead," Helgird nodded. "I know, I understand. But you have to remember that life is short and hard here in Skyrim, young Marcus. None of us know when we'll be called to Aetherius by Arkay."

"Susanna's death was needless," Marcus insisted. "She'd still be alive if…if…" he wondered how far he dared go in his criticism of Ulfric Stormcloak. He needn't have worried.

"If our Jarl paid more attention to what's going on in his city instead of fighting a war he can't win," Helgird nodded. "I understand, Marcus. Believe me, I do." She laid a withered hand on his gauntleted fist.

Marcus smiled. "So. The body?"

"Oh yes, right!" Helgird said, recollecting herself. "Well, the only unusual thing is the shape of the cuts. They look like they were made with…well, the ancient Nords used these kinds of curved blades when they embalmed their dead. I don't even know who in Windhelm would even have something like that. Other than me, of course."

"You…weren't involved, were you, Helgird?" he asked slowly. He regretted the question as soon as he asked it. Her eyes bored into his.

"I'm too busy tending the dead, with this stupid war going on, to spend my time making more of them!" she snapped. "Besides, I wouldn't very well tell you about the cuts if I had made them, would I?"

"I'm sorry, Helgird," Marcus apologized. "I had to ask, though."

Her features softened. "I know you did. But let's just get it out there in the open so we can move on, alright?"

She motioned him over to the other side of Susanna's body and pointed out a series of bruises on the girl's neck. "What do you see?"

"Looks like she was strangled," Marcus said promptly. Helgird nodded approvingly.

"Exactly. And not only that, the killer had something rather unique about him. Do you see it?"

Marcus looked closer, but he couldn't figure out what Helgird was getting at. "Okay, I give up," he said finally. Enlighten me."

"Take a look at your hand," she said. "No, I mean without the gauntlet."

Marcus removed the armored glove and looked at his hand again. "I'm still not seeing it," he said.

"Your little finger," she said, waiting.

"O-o-okay…" he ventured slowly.

Helgird gave an exasperated sigh. "Look at mine," she demanded, holding up her hand, fingers together, palm towards him.

Helplessly, Marcus shook his head and Helgird finally relented. "The length, Marcus," she scolded him. "The length! My little finger is only about half the length of the third finger next to it. So is yours. Now look at those bruises again."

He did, and saw at once now what she had seen immediately. "The little finger is almost the same length as the ring finger," he said. "So whoever did this has long fingers."

"Really long and elegant," Helgird said. "The bruise for the thumb is over here, nearly half again the length of my reach." She placed her hand against Susanna's neck to show the comparison.

Marcus gazed at the priestess admiringly for a moment before a thought occurred to him.

"Helgird," he began, "do you keep any really fine powder down here?"

"You mean like bone meal?" she asked. "Some, why?"

"No, finer than bone meal," he answered. He'd seen that particular alchemical ingredient before, and knew it was far too coarse for what he had in mind.

"Hmm," she considered. "There isn't much finer than bone meal, except maybe finely-ground void salts, or perhaps powdered mammoth tusk."

"Where would I get those?

"Talk to Nurelion, at the White Phial," she said. "Why? What did you need it for?"

"I'll show you," he grinned. He asked her to fetch parchment and some ink, and then proceeded to show her how to take fingerprints. By soaking a piece of linen with the ink, he was able to control how much was left on the fingertips before rolling them carefully, precisely, and individually across the parchment.

"Everyone in the world has a unique set," he explained. "No two people have identical fingerprints. Even identical twins, like Nilsine and Friga Shatter-Shield, would have had slight variations."

"Is this some new method they're using in Cyrodiil?" she asked in wonder as she looked at the sets of prints he had made from her fingers, his own, and Susanna's. She compared the inkblots with whorls and ridges she could clearly see on her own hand.

"Uh, yeah. It's fairly new," he bald-faced lied. "There are people whose job it is to match up the fingerprints found at the crime scene to the suspects."

"And how do they get the prints in the first place?" she asked. "If I were a criminal, and knew about this technique, I would not willingly submit to being…what did you call this?"

"Fingerprinted," he shrugged. "That's what the fine powder is for. Your skin secretes minute quantities of oils all day long," he went on.

"That much I do know," Helgird said. "It's what keeps the flesh supple while we're alive. After death, without those oils, the body begins to dry out. The embalming process I use helps to remove those oils faster."

"Exactly!" Marcus said. "Have you ever noticed, when you come in from outside and pick up a mug or a glass, that the heat from your skin leaves a mist on it briefly?"

"Of course."

"Well, your skin is leaving oils there as well, in a perfect – or near-perfect – impression of your fingerprint. It can't be seen—"

"Unless you use the fine powder!" Helgird crowed. "I get it! You sprinkle it on, right?"

"It works better if you can blow it on lightly," Marcus agreed, "and then you'll be able to see the prints and be able to compare them with those found at the crime scene."

"How are you going to get the fingerprints, then?" Helgird asked eagerly.

"I'm working on it," Marcus said. "First I need to get into Hjerim, to see if any were left there by the murderer."

"And then? Do we fingerprint everyone in Windhelm?" Helgird asked sourly. "That's going to take some time."

"No," Marcus said. "I'm hoping to maybe find some clues inside the house that can narrow down possible suspects."

"Do you have any possible suspects?" the old priestess asked him.

Marcus shook his head. "No, not yet. But that's never stopped me before!"

* * *

><p>Nurelion was a querulous, sick old Altmer who ran the alchemy shop in town. Marcus walked in on an argument he and his apprentice seemed to be engaged in.<p>

"I'll be fine," the old elf insisted, going off into a coughing jag that clearly indicated he was anything but.

"Master, you're not well enough!" the young man pleaded. "Please, why don't you lay down and rest, and I'll get you some tonic."

"Do you think that if there was a tonic out there that could cure me, that I wouldn't have found it already?" he grumbled. He seemed to notice Marcus standing there for the first time.

"I hope you've got some coin," he said irritably, "and you're not just here to gawk at my goods."

_God, I hope that's not code for something,_ Marcus shuddered inwardly.

"I'm looking for some finely-ground void salts, or maybe powdered mammoth tusk," Marcus told him. "Whichever is finer."

"What do you need it for?" Nurelion demanded, but Marcus didn't want this spread all over Windhelm before he had a chance to set his trap.

"Just let me see them, please," he insisted, rather imperiously. The old Altmer might be sick, but his attitude set Marcus' teeth on edge.

"Hmph!" the old alchemist grumbled. He went into the back and returned shortly with two jars. Marcus didn't know which was which. He wasn't an alchemist and rarely dabbled in it. Either he found the potions he used or he bought them.

Examining the two powders, he took a pinch of each and sifted through his finger. The black powder had the consistency of beach sand; far too coarse. The white powder, however, was as soft as talc.

"I'll take this one," he said, pushing the black powder away and picking up the jar with the white.

"Huh," Nurelion remarked. "The mammoth tusk, eh? Figures. You fighter types are always looking to restore your stamina."

_So that's what it does._ Well, one of its properties, anyway. Arcadia had told him each ingredient usually produced four different applications.

In spite of the fact that it appeared to be an uncommon ingredient, it wasn't that expensive, and there was more than enough in the jar for Marcus' purposes. Now he had to find someone from Clan Shatter-Shield who could let him into the house. The guards helpfully pointed out Nilsine, a very pretty young girl with an expression of ineffable sadness on her face, listlessly wandering the Stone Quarter.

"I—I lost my twin sister, a while back," she mumbled, when Marcus introduced himself as someone working on the case. "Have you ever lost someone close to you?" she asked, not expecting any empathy.

"My wife and children," Marcus admitted quietly. "They were…torn from me, and are now gone. I'll never see them again." The ache was still there, but he was gradually coming to terms with it.

"Then you know how I feel," Nilsine said dully. "I feel like half of me has been ripped away, and I'll never be whole again."

He nodded compassionately. Yes, that was pretty much how it felt. "I'd like very much to find out who did this, Nilsine," he said. "Do you have a key to your sister's house? Perhaps I can find some clues there."

"My mother has the key," Nilsine said, tremulously. "I don't even want to go in there. My father says we're supposed to get on with our lives. Like it's that easy," she finished bitterly.

"I'll talk to your mother, then," Marcus said firmly. "I'll get to the bottom of it. I promise."

He found Tova Shatter-Shield as she was returning to her home. The older woman looked shell-shocked, but graciously invited him in to talk.

"I don't know what else I can tell you that I haven't already told the guards," she said, sorrowfully. "I've been a bit…out of sorts, since Fr…since our daughter was taken from us."

"Friga was the older of your twin girls?" Marcus asked sympathetically. Tova nodded. "She was born on the fifteenth of Sun's Height at dusk," she explained, "but I was still in labor hours later, and Nilsine was born on the morning of the sixteenth." She gave a slight smile. "We always celebrated the girls' birthdays separately, even though they were born only a few hours apart."

"You bought Hjerim for Friga?"

Tova nodded. "My husband, Torbjorn, did. It was a present for her eighteenth birthday." She gave a small laugh. "Nilsine just wanted a horse of her own. Tor said he wished both the girls had Sina's tastes." Tears welled in her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief. "I'm sorry," she said brokenly. "I'm not really sure what to do with myself anymore. I just miss her so much. I try not to think of her, but sometimes, the simplest thing will remind me."

"You shouldn't forget her," Marcus said kindly. "She was your daughter, just as Nilsine is. Don't forget that she's hurting, too. I know it's hard – I've been where you are now – but try to focus on the things you loved about Friga – her smile, perhaps, or her laugh, or the way she would look at you when you teased her—" He couldn't go on; not and still be able to trust his own voice.

"You've been very kind, Marcus of Whiterun," Tova said raggedly. "Here. Take the key. See if you can learn anything from what you may find inside. Tor and I sealed it up after—well, afterwards. We haven't been in there since. I suppose we should sell the place, but who would want to buy it?"

"I'll be sure to let you know if I find anything," Marcus promised, taking the key. "Thank you, Tova. And please accept my sincere condolences for your loss."

Tova nodded and hid her face in her handkerchief. Marcus touched her briefly on the shoulder, then showed himself out.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Next up, the conclusion of "Blood on the Ice". It's ready, so I'll be posting both chapters simultaneously.]<em>


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Hjerim was a dark, gloomy, low-ceilinged house with wide, expansive rooms. The first thing Marcus noticed upon entering was the blood spatters everywhere. He didn't know exactly how long ago the murder of Friga Shatter-Shield had taken place, but it was apparent that it was long enough to allow dust to collect on the floor and cobwebs to form in the corners.

Bottles of mead lay scattered everywhere, some empty, some full and some which were in a partial state of consumption, as if the imbiber had laid it down for a moment, then walked off and forgotten it. Footprints in the dust, and tracks of mud and blood led throughout the house, crisscrossing themselves. It would be impossible to say they led anywhere in particular.

The main trail of blood, however, which looked as though something heavy had been wrapped up and dragged, crossed the main hall from the back room to the front door, swerving near a chest in the corner. It was locked, but it wasn't a high-quality piece of hardware, and Marcus thought he was getting pretty good at getting into things most people would like to keep others out of.

Inside the chest was a sheaf of pamphlets, all reading the same message:

"_Beware the Butcher!_

_The killer who haunts the streets of Windhelm!_

_These calamitous times bring out the worst in people; don't become the next victim!_

_See Viola Giordano if you spot any suspicious behavior."_

"So, someone else has been investigating," Marcus mused out loud. Or at least, they were trying to bring awareness to the issue. Why were there so many of them in the chest?

_A murderer might attempt to deflect attention from themselves by calling attention to the problem,_ his inner dragon rumbled.

It was possible. Or they might simply be trying to keep the pamphlets out of peoples' hands. In any case, it might be worthwhile to seek out this Viola Giordano and see what she had to say on the matter.

Underneath the flyleaves, he found a small, slim, leather-bound book. "Now we're getting somewhere!" he murmured with satisfaction, and opened the volume.

A few moments later, he closed it with a sharp _snap!_ What a sick bastard! He had deliberately _stalked_ Susanna. This wasn't just a random killing. This was pure, unadulterated pre-meditated murder. Marcus felt sick.

Pocketing the journal and one of the flyers, Marcus searched the kitchen area before proceeding upstairs. He wanted to be sure he hadn't missed anything else before checking out the back room. Other than the oddly-placed chair on the bed, which looked as though someone may have tried to hang themselves – _or perhaps someone else? – _there was little to see upstairs.

Returning to the main level, he followed the blood smears into the back room, which was devoid of anything other than two wardrobes and a nightstand. One wardrobe held a blood-stained tarp or blanket, and a few spare clothing items, but they were made for a man, not a woman.

Marcus considered this for a few moments. How long had Friga Shatter-Shield actually _lived _in the house? If the lacks of furnishings was any indication, it didn't seem like it could have been very long. Tova had told him that she and Torbjorn had sealed the place up after their daughter's murder. Where, then, had all the furnishings gone? And whose clothes were hanging in the wardrobe? Knowing what he knew of most women of Skyrim, it seemed unlikely Friga would have had a secret lover, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

The nightstand yielded more of the _Beware the Butcher! _Flyers, and Marcus was about to move on to the other wardrobe when a glimmer of something caught his eye. Kneeling down he rummaged under the papers and carefully pulled out an amulet, grateful he was wearing his gauntlets. It was about the size of a half-dollar coin, suspended from a chain made of silver and ebony. A worn bas-relief on the face of the amulet seemed to be carved from a single piece of jade and mounted to the silver backing. He couldn't make out what the carving was meant to be, however.

He didn't hold out much hope that he would be able to lift a print from it…the necklace was, after all, very small. He hoped he would have better luck with the journal. Tucking the piece of jewelry carefully into his belt pouch, he turned his attention to the second wardrobe.

This one appeared to be nailed to the wall, and remembering Delphine's "secret" door, he searched until he found a catch that opened the false back panel.

Marcus like to think he had a strong constitution, and he'd watched many an episode of _CSI_ and _NCIS, _but television gore paled in comparison with reality. The nightmarish scene would haunt his sleep for many weeks afterward, and he only just made it to a bucket out in the alcove before retching up his lunch.

When he had recovered somewhat, he took a deep breath and a stamina potion before re-entering the charnel room. Trying desperately not to step on any of the bones strewn around the floor, Marcus made his way over to a table, which seemed to be where the Butcher did most of his work. Embalming tools lay amid the pools of blood, bones and viscera which littered the table. A second leather-bound volume lay to one side, and Marcus picked it up, though it was several minutes and another stamina potion before he could open the book out in the main hall.

It read like a grocery list. _The grocery list of a madman with murder on his mind._ At the bottom of the last page the writer had inscribed some sort of ritual:

"_star-scrying to the edge of the ice-mind_

_Look to the lights where the souls dance_

_Revealing the time when a spark will revive when the rotted unite under most skillful hands_

_(translated from Aldmer text, as interpreted by the Ayleids and first transcribed by Altmer, provenance and authority unknown)"_

And underneath that, scrawled as though the writer was in a hurry: _"Soon."_

What the hell did _that_ mean? Not the "soon" part, he got that. But all the other hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo that went before it. Marcus shook his head. He needed fresh air. He needed to get out of here.

He needed a drink.

* * *

><p>It was nearly suppertime when he felt settled enough to return to Jorleif with what he'd learned. Jorleif knew nothing about the amulet but told him he should speak with Callixto Corrium, the owner of the antiquities museum.<p>

_Wasn't he one of the witnesses?_ Yes. Yes, he was.

"As for Viola Giordano," Jorleif said scathingly. "She's just the town busy-body. Seems to have made it her business to find out who this 'Butcher' is, but she hasn't really had anything useful to add to the investigation."

"You've spoken with her, then?" Marcus asked.

"No need to," Jorleif said dismissively. "Like I said, she's just a nosy old busy-body. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm needed." He gave a slight bow and crossed the room to where Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne.

Marcus had deliberately avoided looking at the man, and kept his distance. He didn't think Ulfric would recognize him as the same young man on the cart with him in Helgen, but he was taking no chances. The irony of the situation was not lost on Marcus. Here he was in Windhelm, seat of power of the Stormcloaks, working to try and solve a murder mystery for a man he despised.

_We're not doing it for him,_ his dragon rumbled. _We're doing it for Friga and Susanna and Isabella._

"Quite right," he murmured, turning on his heel and leaving the Palace of the Kings.

He found Viola Giordano crossing the Valunstrad, heading home. She saw him before he noticed her. An older woman, she appeared to be in her forties, wearing common clothing, her graying hair swept back from her Imperial features.

"Be on the lookout!" she hissed at him, in a conspiratorial whisper. "The Butcher could be around any corner!"

"What do you know about the Butcher?" Marcus asked, curious. Was she truly just an old gossip, as Jorleif seemed to think, or was she withholding information due to any lack of cooperation on his part.

"Not much," she admitted. "But I'm the only one who's trying to find him!" She gave a shudder. "Well, not find _him,_ really, but information about him. The Jarl won't help. The guards won't help. They're all too busy with this war. I'm the only one who seems to care!"

"I care," Marcus stated simply, thereby earning Viola's trust in an instant. "Can you tell me what you've been able to find out?"

"Not here!" Viola hissed. "The walls have ears, you know!" She led him back to the Candlehearth, where they found a quiet table and ordered tankards of mead.

"So," Marcus prompted. "About the Butcher…?"

"Yes," Viola said in hushed tones. "I've figured out that it must be a man—"

"Why?" Marcus interrupted.

Viola blinked. "Well, because he's been preying on woman," she said simply. "Young women, too, but there's only been three murders, so that could change."

"That still doesn't rule out a female suspect," Marcus said. Maybe Jorleif was right after all.

"You didn't let me finish," Viola scolded. "The bodies have been dragged to the cemetery from a long distance. I saw the abrasions on Susanna's body. The same as on Isabella's. That requires a great deal of upper body strength: something at which men are better than women."

Alright, so she _had_ been making some realistic deductions. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"Both Susanna and Isabella were murdered in the 'dead hours' of the night," Viola said. "Sometime between three and four in the morning, when the guard patrols are at their sparsest. It's as though they knew when to avoid being seen."

"So the perpetrator has been watching the guards," Marcus said. "Alright, that makes sense."

"That's not all," Viola said. "From the way the bodies were dragged, I figured out the killer must be between five and a half, and six feet tall, and probably not more than about a hundred and fifty pounds in weight."

Marcus gaped at her. "How in Oblivion did you figure _that_ out?" he asked in wonder.

"Based on the damage to the bodies after death, and the depth of the ruts formed in the cemetery, our murderer wasn't able to lift the girls completely off the ground. He didn't have the height or the strength to do so."

Marcus grinned. "That's a pretty important profiling," he said approvingly.

"Profiling?"

"It's what you just did: figured out who we should be looking for based on the clues left behind." He took out the journals. "I'd like to show you something," he told her, "but for reasons of my own, I'll have to ask you not to touch it. What can you tell me about this?"

He turned the pages of the first journal slowly, allowing her to read the text. When she nodded she was finished, he set the book carefully down. "Well?"

Viola considered. "The handwriting suggests an older person," she said finally. "If you look at it again, you can see how unsteady it is. See, there, where the ink is smudged?"

"Couldn't that just be emotion?" Marcus asked.

"No, I don't think so," Viola said, shaking her head. "The language used is too methodical, too purposeful. The murderer knew exactly what they wanted, and how they were going to get it. Everything here tells me that they were doing their very best to control a physical ailment, like the trembling hands older people sometimes get."

"Like they were writing it down for posterity," Marcus mused, and Viola beamed at him.

"Exactly!" she said.

"Interesting," Marcus said thoughtfully. "So we're looking for an older man, about five and a half to six feet tall, but probably under that, of medium build—"

"Who knows magic," Viola reminded him. "This passage here: 'I am discovering new magic here. Something deeper than the cantripped shenanigans of fire and light.' It sounds like he may have been kicked out of Winterhold for exploring magic not allowed up there."

"What kind of magic?" Marcus asked.

"The darkest kind," Viola said, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Necromancy!" She looked around carefully before continuing. "I've been suspecting Wuunferth for some time now!"

"Who's Wuunferth?"

"The court mage," Viola said, scowling. "He's called Wuunferth the Unliving, and I've always thought he was a suspicious character. There have been rumors swirling about him for years. As long as I can remember, really. But he's a dangerous man. It's why they call him 'the Unliving.' I wouldn't approach him directly. You should take this to Jorleif and let him know what we've discovered! There's no time to lose!"

"Hold on, Viola!" Marcus said firmly. "I'm not going to go to Jorleif about this and start throwing accusations around. I'll need more solid proof."

"I don't know how much more solid you can get than _this,"_ she said, doubtfully, indicating the journal.

"I've got some ideas kicking around," Marcus assured her. "But I'm not ready to say anything yet, so I'm going to ask you to keep quiet about it for now. I don't want to tip our hand."

Whether Viola understood the poker reference or not, she seemed willing to go along with him for now. He was sure it was because he was the first person to take her seriously. He escorted her home, to her immense pleasure, then returned to the Candlehearth to consider his next move. He needed to get his hands on a couple of glass goblets.

* * *

><p>Inquiries the next day led Marcus to Sadri's Used Wares in the Grey Quarter. Along the way, he noticed a little flower girl standing near a large gate that led out to the docks where ships. Her dress was stained, torn and ragged, her feet were bare, but her eyes were bright with hope as she approached him with her flower basket.<p>

"Please, mister, would you like to buy some flowers?"

Knowing he was already lost, Marcus smiled. "Of course," he said. "What have you got?"

"Some mountain flowers, some nightshade and some deathbell," she informed him. "I picked them all by myself."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Sofie," the little girl replied. She looked to be a little older than Lucia, but younger than Blaise.

"Where are your parents?" he asked gently, already guessing. She wouldn't be out here trying to sell flowers if her parents were still around.

"They're—they're dead," Sofie said quietly. "My mama died when I was little….I don't remember her very well. My father was a Stormcloak soldier. One day he left and…didn't come back. I'm all alone now. I…I try to sell flowers so I can buy food. Sometimes Mister Quintus from the White Phial will come and buy some, and Miss Niranye likes the lavender I sometimes find to make her house smell pretty. I know it's not much, but…what else can I do?"

"I'll take them all," he told her firmly, handing her more than enough to cover the cost of the flowers. She tried to give him change, but he told her to keep it and thanked her for the pretty flowers.

"Thank _you,_ mister!" she said happily. "Thanks for talking to me!"

_She comes home with me,_ he told his inner dragon, before it could protest, but the presence in his mind was quiet, humming to itself happily.

Revyn Sadri was more than happy to let him browse his rather extensive and eclectic selection of used goods. Marcus eventually found two clear crystal mismatched glasses and paid the dark elf for them.

"All my good in here are legitimate," he assured Marcus, "which is more than I can say for _some_."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Has that been a problem?" he asked.

"Of course not!" Revyn protested, a little too loudly, Marcus thought. "Only a careless, shameless, idiotic fetcher would do something as stupid as to buy pilfered goods!"

Marcus loved that word: _fetcher._ There was just something about it that spoke volumes.

Revyn put his head in his hands and leaned his elbows on the counter. "Oh, by Azura, I've made a terrible mistake!" he moaned.

"Why don't you tell me about it," Marcus offered. "I might be able to help."

Revyn seemed to consider the Imperial before him for a few heartbeats before capitulating.

"I bought a gold ring the other day," he confessed. "And now I find that Viola Giordano has been missing a ring that fits the description!"

"So, just return the ring and explain it to her," Marcus shrugged. "I'm sure she'd understand. At least she'll have her ring back."

"It's not that easy," Revyn said. "You're an outsider, so you wouldn't understand. My people aren't viewed or treated very well here." Marcus admitted to himself that he'd already noticed that. "She'd go straight to the Jarl if she thought I was even remotely involved."

"What if I give it to her?" Marcus offered.

"I can't have my name connected to it in any way," Revyn pleaded, desperately. "You have to get it to her some other way. Look, I know it's dangerous, but if you could sneak into her house, put it in a dresser or something. She'll think she's just mislaid it. No connection to you, and better still, none to me. I'd make it worth your while."

_Breaking and entering?_ his inner dragon snorted. _No wonder the Dunmer are viewed with suspicion here._

Squashing that thought, Marcus took the ring. "I'll get it to her without her knowing how it came to be there," he promised. And he wouldn't even have to break into her house to do it. Slipping it into a drawer somewhere might be dicey, but he felt confident he could distract her long enough to do the deed.

Leaving Sadri's Used Wares, Marcus headed for Callixto's museum. He wanted to see how Hilgird was coming with the journals he'd dropped off earlier in the day. He'd shown her how he had seen the forensic cops dusting for fingerprints, and she promised to experiment with her own prints before trying to lift anything off the books. But she would need something to compare any results to, and that meant getting examples for the two suspects he had.

Something about Callixto had bothered him. It wasn't until he'd woken up in the middle of the night, still churning the information through his mind in his sleep that he realized what it was.

"_Always a tragedy when someone has to die."_

Susanna didn't _have_ to die. It was a tragedy, yes, but not because she _had _to die…unless Callixto knew more than he was letting on.

Callixto greeted him warmly as he entered. "How goes your investigation?" he asked.

"Not well," Marcus lied, watching the older man's face carefully. A flicker of satisfaction passed across so quickly Marcus might have missed it if he hadn't been looking for it.

"Ah, well," Callixto smiled. "I'm sure something will turn up soon. What can I do for you today? Have you come to view the museum? I'd be happy to show you around."

"Actually, yes," Marcus smiled. "I'd love to have a look at your collection."

Callixto beamed in satisfaction and began to show Marcus the wide array of items he had collected in his years of adventuring. "With my sister," he said, a slight hitch in his voice as he spoke. "We inherited a modest sum of money and decided to travel and seek out whatever adventures we could find."

"Where is your sister now?" Marcus asked, pretending to examine a drinking horn, but really looking at the collection of embalming tools sitting next to it.

"My sister passed away some years ago," Callixto replied sadly. "So I settled down here and opened the House of Curiosities. I think she would be happy to know that our collection has brought smiles to faces both young and old."

He continued to point out various oddities in his collection: the _Book of Fate_, which was completely blank ("Those with no pre-determined destiny might see only a blank book," he explained), Ysgramor's Soup Spoon ("Yes, I know it looks like a fork. How can one eat soup with a fork, you ask? My friend, you did not know Ysgramor!"), and the aforementioned embalming tools.

"These were found in a crypt outside Windhelm. They belonged to the ancient Nords who dwelt in Skyrim before the days of the First Empire."

"Aren't these used to prepare the dead for burial?" Marcus asked.

"Yes, indeed!" Callixto said, giving him a curious look. "Are you a scholar, then, perhaps?"

"Maybe a budding one," Marcus smiled. "I found a couple things I was hoping maybe you could tell me more about."

"I'd be delighted to take a look at them," the curator smiled.

Marcus pulled out one of the glass goblets. He had noticed earlier that Callixto's hands were bare, with long, elegant fingers and a little finger nearly the same length as the ring finger; that made this so much easier. He handed the goblet over. "Someone told me this was an ancient betrothal goblet of the Third Era," he fabricated. "Is it worth anything?"

Callixto gave an indulgent smile. "Oh, my friend," he chuckled. "I certainly hope you didn't part with any significant amount of money to obtain this."

"A few gold," Marcus admitted sheepishly. Damn, but he was getting good at acting!

"Well, I hate to be the one to tell you," Callixto said as he handed the goblet back. "This is just a simple glass goblet, such as you could find in any shop from here to Cyrodiil. I'm sorry."

"Oh well," Marcus muttered as he carefully put the chalice back into his backpack. "Live and learn I guess. What about this?" He pulled out the amulet, watching the old man closely.

The tell-tale widening of the Imperial's eyes told Marcus what he needed to know. Callixto recognized the necklace, and the casual manner in which he passed off its identity didn't fool Marcus for a moment.

"Interesting," the old curator murmured, shooting a shrewd look at the young Dragonborn. "Where did you come by this?"

"Shroud Hearth Barrow," Marcus said without batting an eye. "It's down in Ivarstead, at the foot of the Throat—"

"I know where Ivarstead is," Callixto cut him off, then smiled. "Well, that's where it must have ended up, then," he said. "This is the Wheelstone. It's an heirloom symbol of the power of Windhelm. It's traditionally carried by the court mage. I'd be happy to buy it from you for, say, five hundred septims?" His eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, and Marcus pretended not to notice.

"Shouldn't it go back to the court mage, then?" Marcus asked, as innocently as he could. "I mean, if it's missing, I'm sure he'd be glad to have it back."

"Wuunferth? Bah! It's purely ceremonial," Callixto dismissed. "He has no use for it. Besides, I wouldn't want to be the one to give it to him. Gives me the creeps!" He lowered his voice to hushed whisper. "They say he dabbles in necromancy." He paused to see what effect that had on his audience, and Marcus obliged him by looking suitable shocked. "Are you sure you won't sell? Five hundred septims is a lot of gold."

_Ah, appealing to the baser instincts, are we?_ Marcus smiled grimly to himself. Aloud he simply said, "No, I think I'll just hang onto it for a while. Maybe I'll use it to start my own collection of curiosities!"

"Of course, of course," Callixto said. "Well, that's it for the tour. If you'll excuse me, I have some things I need to attend to." He escorted Marcus to the door and shut it behind him. Marcus stood outside once more.

"Well, what's the hurry, here's your hat," he murmured. Callixto certainly seemed keen to get him out of the shop as quickly as possible. And Marcus didn't miss the distinct _snick_ of the lock being turned behind him.

It was all still very circumstantial, however, as he turned his steps to the Palace of the Kings once more to track down Wuunferth the Unliving.

As he made his way down the cobbled street he could not fail to overhear a young boy in a very loud exchange with a Dunmer woman who looked enough like Revyn Sadri to be his sister.

"So it's true, then," the boy said, "what everyone is saying? That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?"

_You have my attention, child,_ Marcus' dragon suddenly reared its metaphorical head. He hung back behind a stone pillar to listen unobserved.

"Oh, Grimvar," the woman sighed, "always with the nonsense. No, of course not! Those are just tales…"

"Fine then," Grimvar said, calling her bluff as only a determined child can do. "I'll invite him out to play then. He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door…" Marcus peered around in time to see Grimvar heading to a door tucked under a stone over hang not far away.

"No, Grimvar, wait!" the woman cried in sudden panic. "That boy….that house…they're cursed!"

Grimvar's voice was suddenly full of smugness. "Ha!" he gloated. "Then I'm right! I knew it! He _is _trying to have somebody killed!"

The Dunmer woman gave it up and sighed again. "Alright, I won't deny it, child. What you've heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can only lead to ruin. Now, enough! We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need…"

The voices faded as the boy and the woman continued on down the street.

Marcus turned this new information over in his mind. A child…a playmate of young Grimvar…was attempting to contact the Dark Brotherhood, to have someone _killed?_ Who could have pissed off a child that much? How could such a child even afford a contract fee? Worse still, it appeared a lot of people knew about this, from what Grimvar had said, and Jarl Ulfric had done nothing to stop it.

_We have to do something about this. About the boy. About Ulfric Stormcloak._

"Add it to my List of Things to Do Today," Marcus muttered. He took a swift glance up and down the street before slipping over to the door. He tested the latch and found it locked.

_Small wonder there, if the kid's doing something he knows he shouldn't be doing,_ Marcus thought to himself. _And where the hell are his parents?_ Grimly, he had a feeling he knew the answer to that one. With the war going on, there were an awful lot of war orphans on both sides.

The lock wasn't difficult, thankfully, and Marcus quickly got it open and slipped inside. Stairs led straight up, and he heard a young boy muttering upstairs, but he couldn't quite make out the words. As he drew level with the upper floor, however, they became much clearer…and darker.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me," the boy intoned from another room nearby. "For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

Marcus glanced swiftly around the room. Spartanly furnished, with garbage strewn everywhere, it looked as though someone who cared very little if they lived or died existed in this house.

The boy, Aventus, never ceased his chanting, only stopping now and then to plead to some unknown entity, "Please….how long? How long do I have to keep this up? I keep praying, Night Mother, but I'm so…so tired." Then he took a deep breath and began again, "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me…"

Marcus' heart broke for the poor kid. A piece of parchment near his foot caught his eye, and he bent down to pick it up, having no qualms whatsoever about reading someone else's mail. This was a boy in crisis, after all. Any information would help.

"_Master Aventus Aretino," _the note read, _"Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak wishes to express his deepest sympathies at the death of your mother, Naalia. Unfortunately, because you are fatherless, and have no other known relations, the Jarl cannot allow you to remain in your home unsupervised. Therefore, in no more than a week's time, you are to report to Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, where you will reside until your sixteenth birthday._

"_The Aretino family home in the city of Windhelm will, of course, remain your property. The building will be securely locked and ready for your return six years hence. Note that I am unsure of the education provided to you by your recently deceased mother, or if you possess the ability to read the letter I am currently composing. Therefore, a member of the city guard will call upon you in one week, at your home, and provide escort to the orphanage. Hopefully, his arrival will not come as a complete shock._

"_With greatest respect, Jorleif, Steward to our most noble Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak."_

How Marcus contained his temper, he had no idea. His inner dragon was howling with outrage, and he wanted to punch Jorleif in the face, followed swiftly by Ulfric Stormcloak.

_Or maybe just test the theory of whether we can actually Shout a person to death,_ his dragon rumbled dangerously, and it was far too tempting to give in to that thought.

Here was a boy in crisis, who had just lost his mother, who had no father to look after him, and they thought…they _hoped_…that a _note_ was sufficient to let him know of the changes they had decided to put him through. No wonder Aventus was calling upon the Dark Brotherhood! Marcus was tempted to sit down next to the boy and chant along with him!

Deciding now was the time to intervene, when Aventus had paused once more in his litany, Marcus stepped to the doorway of the other room, which must once have been a bedchamber, but was now something quite different.

Whatever he had been expecting Aventus to be doing, kneeling next to a skeleton in a ring of candles, stabbing a human heart – _how in the name of all that was holy did he acquire _that? – with an iron dagger, was not one of them.

"So…tired…" Aventus murmured. The boy looked awful. Thin to the point of being emaciated, wearing ragged clothes with dark circles under his eyes, he looked as though he hadn't slept in days.

"Aventus," Marcus began quietly, and was surprised to see the child leap to his feet as if pulled by a string.

"You came!" he breathed, then whooped in satisfaction. "I knew you would! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over, with the body…and the…things, and then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!" The boy's eyes were shining in almost worshipful respect.

_Wait. Assassin? Me?_ "Uh…hold on a moment," Marcus stammered. "I'm not who you think I am."

"Yes you are!" Aventus exclaimed. "I did the Black Sacrament, and then you showed up, and now you can kill Grelod the Kind!"

_Did we take a wrong turn somewhere?_ he asked his inner dragon, who chose that moment to remain quiet.

"Who's Grelod the Kind?" Marcus asked. _Not Jorleif? Not Ulfric Stormcloak? Pity about that one, really._ He really would have like to see Ulfric dodging red and black clad assassins everywhere he went. Of course, as Jarl he would be surrounded by guards at all times, even when he went to the privy, so it was unlikely an assassin would succeed. Still, one could hope. Maybe they could introduce black widows into the privy.

"She's the Headmistress at Honorhall in Riften," Aventus explained. His face fell. "My mother…she died…and then the _Jarl _said I couldn't stay here and they sent me to _Honorhall."_

So, he'd been able to read the letter after all. The words 'Jarl' and 'Honorhall' were laced with as much hate and disgust as a ten-year-old could muster.

"The Headmistress there is an old woman they call Grelod the Kind," Aventus continued. "But she's not kind, she's _horrible_, to _all _of us! She's a _monster!_ She needs to die!"

"It's probably not as bad as all that," Marcus made one more attempt to persuade Aventus to give up this dark path he trod.

"Yes it is!" Aventus insisted. "You don't know what it's like! She won't let us play outside. We get to stand out in the cold and the snow and the sun and the rain for only an hour, then we have to go back inside to work. Work, work, work, all the time! We don't get lessons, we only get one meal, and if we complain, she beats us or puts us in the Pit!"

"The Pit?"

"It's a dark, wet, stinky hole under the Orphanage," Aventus explained. "We have to stay there until she remembers to let us out. Samuel was there for two days, once! He only survived because Francois slipped some bread down the hole to him…at least, he did until Grelod caught him, and then she beat him for it so bad he couldn't move for a whole day. Then she beat him again because he didn't do his chores."

Marcus was definitely not liking what he was hearing.

"And the Jarl doesn't do anything about this?" he asked.

Aventus snorted derisively, and there was so much said in that one ugly sound. "The Jarl doesn't care beans about us," he sneered. "We're orphans. No one cares about us. Except Constance. She's nice. She tries to help, but only when she can do it without Grelod catching her."

Marcus considered this. Aventus might have an overactive imagination, but even a ten-year-old would have trouble making up some of the things he was hearing now.

"I'll look into it," he promised. "If you're right—"

"You'll kill Grelod, right?" Aventus asked eagerly. A little _too_ eagerly, actually. No doubt about it, the boy was already tainted by his knowledge of the purpose of the Dark Brotherhood.

"How did you escape from there?" Marcus asked, curious.

"I slipped over the wall," Aventus said proudly. "Hroar let me stand on his shoulders and gave me a boost. I wanted to pull him up after me, but there was a guard patrolling nearby, and Hroar just told me to make a run for it." His face fell again. "I hope he's okay. I hope Grelod didn't find out he helped me."

"And you came back here all by yourself?" Marcus asked, impressed in spite of himself.

The boy nodded. "I hid near the stables until the carriage was ready to leave, then I slipped underneath it and held on."

Marcus blinked. "All the way back to Windhelm?" he blurted, in spite of himself.

"There were some planks under it that I slipped onto," Aventus shrugged. "It was a rough ride, but I made it."

Impressed in spite of himself at the boy's ingenuity, he still felt there had to be some other solution than cold-bloodedly killing an old woman. Perhaps Aventus was stretching the truth – to the breaking point, maybe – and perhaps he wasn't too far wrong, but Marcus realized his trip to Winterhold would be put off indefinitely while he resolved this. He couldn't leave Aventus hanging in the balance, eking out an existence in a barren house with a skeleton that didn't even have a closet to hide in.

He promised the boy once more that he would investigate, and on his way out he slipped a small pouch of coins into a nightstand by the door where he knew Aventus would find it. It would keep him going for a few weeks, at least until Marcus could get to the bottom of this particularly sticky situation.

* * *

><p>Wuunferth the Unliving was about as cantankerous as Nurelion had been. <em>What is it with the old men around here? <em>Marcus bristled. They all seemed to think that their longevity gave them some sort of superiority over everyone else.

At first he was indignant when Marcus suggested he might have dealings with necromancy.

"I am a member of the College of Winterhold, in good standing!" he thundered. "They haven't allowed necromancy for hundreds of years!"

"But I found journals that suggested a mage was involved," Marcus replied. "It seems pretty damning."

"I've never kept a journal in my life," Wuunferth said scathingly. "Only a fool who thinks he'll forget things writes it down in a place someone else can look through."

When Marcus showed him the amulet, and told him what Callixto had said about it, Wuunferth snorted. "Figures he'd say something like that," the mage said sourly. "This is the Necromancer's Amulet, of legend," he said authoritatively. "See this relief here? I'm pretty sure at one time it depicted a skull, but it's all worn and faded now. So it appears you're right about one thing: there is necromancy at the heart of all this."

"You mean with regard to the Butcher?" Marcus asked.

"Precisely," Wuunferth said, getting up and crossing the room to his desk. He shuffled some papers around and searched in a couple of drawers before he seemed to find what he was looking for. "Ah, here it is." He showed Marcus a chart he'd drawn on the parchment in his hands. "I've been doing a little investigating of my own into this matter. I've been noticing a pattern to when the killings happen. Now that we know they're tied in to some sort of necromantic ritual, I think I know when the net might occur."

He spread the chart out onto the table and muttered under his breath, "Let's see…from a Loredas of Last Seed, until a Middas of Heartfire…it will happen soon." He looked up at the young Dragonborn. "Very soon," he insisted. "Keep watch in the Stone Quarter tomorrow night. That's almost certainly where the killer will strike next."

"Why there?"

"Because I suspect that's where he's been finding his victims," Wuunferth said. "Except for Friga Shatter-Shield, who was a young woman moved out into a house of her own, alone, the Butcher has been targeting young women wandering around late at night, despite the warnings of Viola Giordano. When the market vendors go home, they don't always pack up everything in their stalls. I'm not suggesting anyone is _stealing_ anything, you understand, but the temptation is certainly there, and the Butcher has been quick to take advantage of it."

Marcus nodded. It made a certain amount of sense. He still wasn't sure Wuunferth wasn't blowing smoke up his backside, however, so he pulled out the other glass goblet he'd purchased earlier in the day.

"One more thing before I go," Marcus said. "I picked up this crystal goblet in a barrow somewhere. It was the only one in the entire barrow, and I thought that was rather unusual, so I got to wondering if it might not be enchanted." He gave a helpless shrug. "I really don't know how to tell these sorts of things. Could you take a look?"

"Hmph," Wuunferth said, taking the goblet and twisting it this way and that. His hands were long and elegant, and the little finger was nearly as long as his ring finger. Marcus felt his heart drop. _Damn!_

"There's nothing unusual about this," the mage said now, handing it back. "Looks like someone might have left it there, and recently, too. It's not that old."

"Ah, well, thanks for checking it out for me," Marcus said. "I'll be sure to let you know what I find out tomorrow night."

"I wouldn't bother," Wuunferth drawled. "If you're successful, I'll hear about it. And if you're not…" he cackled unpleasantly. "I'll hear about that, too!"

Marcus left the Palace of the Kings as quickly as he could without looking like he was rushing. _What a nasty, unpleasant old codger!_ he thought sourly. The less dealings he had with Wuunferth the Unliving, the happier he would be.

On his way back to the Hall of the Dead, Marcus stopped by Viola Giordano's house and knocked politely at the door. She cracked it open only a little bit until she saw who it was, when she opened it wider and welcomed him in.

"What have you learned?" she asked eagerly. "Anything new?"

"Not much more," he hedged, unwilling at this point to divulge too much. The last thing he needed was for Viola to tip off his suspects that he was closer to solving the case. "I really just stopped by to ask if you had any rolls of paper I could borrow."

"I think so," she frowned. "What for?"

"Something I'm working on," he grinned. "Can't say too much, you know."

"Well, alright, I suppose not," Viola fumed impatiently. "But I'm going to demand a full report when this is all over!"

"I promise you'll learn everything once it's done," Marcus said. "And I'll make sure Jorleif knows about your help with all of it."

Viola beamed at him and said happily, "I think I've got some paper upstairs. I'll be right back!" She went upstairs, and Marcus quickly slipped her gold ring into a nearby dresser. He'd be sure to let Revyn know before the day was out.

Viola returned shortly with the paper and once more made him promise to tell all as soon as he could, then Marcus left her house and made his way to the Hall of the Dead to speak to Hilgird.

_You're getting pretty good at deception,_ his inner dragon smirked.

_Shut up,_ he told it succinctly.

Hilgird greeted him enthusiastically when he showed up in her workroom.

"I've managed to get some clear enough prints from the two journals that I think we'll be able to use to identify our killer," she crowed. "This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen! I tested the fingerprint patterns of several other soldiers who were brought in the day before yesterday and studied their prints." She indicated the scored of papers strewn across one table. "Not a single one of them is like the other! I believe I could get used to this type of study," she chirped happily.

"It's called 'forensics' where I come from," Marcus said. "It's the study of all the clues left behind after a crime to determine who the perpetrator is."

"Forensics, eh?" Helgird mused. "I doubt there's any other priest of Arkay across Skyrim who wouldn't love the opportunity to solve crimes this way."

"Maybe you should write and tell them," Marcus grinned. Helgird gave a very girlish giggle.

"Maybe I will! Now, let's see what you have. And look! I have a brand-new pair of gloves so I don't damage our evidence!"

After nearly an hour of studying their 'evidence', Marcus and Helgird drew deep breaths together.

"So we have our killer?" Helgird asked.

"I believe so," Marcus nodded.

"Are you going to go to the Jarl with this information?" the priestess asked.

Marcus shook his head. "I'm not sure he would believe this evidence of ours."

Helgird gave an exasperated snort. "What more can you do?" she said. "Short of catching the Butcher yourself, that is."

Marcus quirked a lop-sided grin at her. "Well, now, Helgird, my dear, funny you should mention that!"

* * *

><p><em>That old wizard had better be right about this,<em> Marcus grumbled to himself. He was stiff, he was cold, he was tired, and by all that was holy, he wanted a drink. Something warm that would take the chill out of his bones and warm his inner core. He wondered if Elda Early-Dawn had any Colovian brandy at the Candlehearth. After this, he was definitely going to find out.

Movement from his left caught his eye and he tensed, but relaxed. The shape was too small to be the Butcher. In fact, it was too small to be a full-grown person.

_Sofie!_ Fear speared Marcus through the heart. What the fuck was she _doing _here? As a matter of fact, where did the child sleep? He'd given her plenty of money the other day when he'd bought her flowers. He'd have thought she would have slept at the Candlehearth for a night, or failing that, at the New Gnisis Cornerclub run by the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter.

But no, he reasoned again. If all she had to her name was the generous handful of coins he'd given her, she would have hoarded them carefully to make sure she'd be able to buy food, not knowing when her next benefactor would buy her flowers.

_I should have taken her home first!_ he berated himself. But he didn't think this whole Butcher thing would take as long as it had. _Stupid, Marcus!_ he growled to himself. _It was stupid of you! Mysteries only get solved in an hour on television. In the real world it takes a lot longer, if they ever get solved at all!_

Sofie had wandered over to look at the produce stall run by Hillevi Cruel-Sea. She didn't touch anything; she just looked wistfully at the fruits and vegetables that hadn't sold that day. Marcus was getting worried.

_Get out of here, Sofie!_ he pleaded silently. He dared not say anything aloud, lest he give away his position and warn the Butcher away. But he didn't want Sofie harmed.

By arrangement with Steward Jorleif, several guards were hidden around the Stone Quarter, but were keeping out of sight to wait and see what would happen. They would also serve as witnesses, if they could apprehend the Butcher before he struck again.

_Please Sofie,_ he begged silently, _leave! Go! Get out of here!_

He could stand it no longer; he couldn't put her at risk. They would just have to wait until the next time opportunity presented itself. Marcus gathered himself to stand when a sudden glint of moons-light on metal caught his eye. A shadow separated itself from a corner by Niranye's stall and moved up behind Sofie, who was peeking over the counter of Aval Atheron's stall.

The hand holding the glinting metal raised, and Marcus broke cover.

"_Now!" _he called to the guards in hiding. _"FUS RO DAH!" _he Shouted towards the crouching figure, which was hurled against Niranye's stall, knocking over several bits of armor and weaponry still stacked there.

Sofie shrieked, and Marcus rushed forward to grab the child before she could disappear into the night.

"We've got him, Marcus!" Anka called, and indeed, though the figure thrashed wildly about, he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

"Let me go! Let me go!" he shrieked. "I've done nothing!" Marcus wasn't surprised at all to see Callixto Corrium lying on the pavement, but several of the guards murmured their astonishment.

"We'll let the Jarl decide that, Callixto," Marcus said darkly, still seething with fury over what the old curator had tried to do. "I've given him some pretty damning evidence already."

Anka rummaged through Callixto's pockets and produced a key. "This what you were looking for?" she asked Marcus.

"That works," he said shortly, taking it from her. "I want to take care of Sofie here first, then I'll meet you there."

"Take all the time you need," she said, coming over to him and leaning down to speak to his ears alone. "Dragonborn," she whispered, grinning smugly at his look of surprise. She was still grinning as they led Callixto away to the Jail under the Palace.

"D-dragonborn?" Sofie whispered, wide-eyed and shivering.

Marcus nodded, smiling gently. "Yes, Sofie, I'm Marcus, called Dragonborn. I hope you're not afraid of me."

"Afraid?" she breathed. "No! You're the hero of the people. Everyone has been telling stories about you. You were nice to me when I didn't know who you were, and you saved me from that bad man!"

"I was very afraid when I saw you here tonight, Sofie," he said. "Why did you come here? You must have heard the stories about the Butcher."

She nodded meekly. "I know. But I couldn't sleep. It was so cold, and I thought if I walked around I could warm up a little. I didn't know the guards wouldn't be here tonight, or I wouldn't have come."

"Sofie," Marcus said anxiously. "I can't let you live on the streets like this. It isn't right. Do you have any family at all?"

She shook her head, lower lip trembling. "Please don't send me to Honorhall!" she pleaded. "Aventus told me what a horrible place it was. That's why I was selling flowers. I thought if I could buy my own food, than I wouldn't be a beggar like Silda, and the Jarl wouldn't send me there. Please, Mister Dragonborn! Don't let them send me to Honorhall!"

Her cries tore at him, and he knew that if he didn't help her, Honorhall was indeed where she might end up. He'd already promised Aventus he would look into it, but he needed to make sure Sofie was safe first. He hadn't discussed it with Blaise or Lucia yet, because this was a fairly new development, and he fervently hoped they wouldn't object too strenuously.

_I'm _really _going to need a bigger house,_ he thought to himself, but honestly, he didn't mind. Maybe he'd have to suck up to Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath after all, but if it meant he could build his own home, he could put in as many bedrooms and privies as he wanted, and adopt as many children as he felt able to take care of. He chuckled wryly to himself. Poor Lydia! What would she think of all this?

"I'm going to take you to the Candlehearth for tonight," he said. "Well get some food in you and you can get a good night's sleep. In the morning, we'll talk about your future, okay?"

Hesitant at first, Sofie finally agreed, and he saw to it that she was settled in a room of her own, cuddled up and safe in bed before heading over to Callixto's House of Antiquities to join Anka in a search of the old curator's home and museum.

The evidence they found there, coupled with the fingerprints Helgird discovered on the journals, all in Callixto's handwriting, were more than enough to convince Jorleif they had their man. He marveled at the new procedure they used to ascertain who the perpetrator was, but assured Marcus that Windhelm was most grateful, and that Jarl Ulfric would deal with the murderer in his own way.

Marcus had a feeling that Callixto would have a date very soon with the headsman. That seemed to be the answer to every major crime in this country. He didn't want to stick around to receive accolades from Ulfric in person, however. Instead, he sent a note by courier ahead to Lydia and asked her to prepare a second bed in Lucia's room, and to inform her he was bringing home a new addition to the family.

Marcus chuckled to himself. He wished he could be there to see her reaction. Knowing Lydia, it would probably involve quite a bit of eye-rolling.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: "Blood on the Ice" is one of those classic, Skyrim mystery quests that abounds with red herrings and misdirection. I always felt bad about Wuunferth ending up wrongfully imprisoned (yes, I know he gets exonerated…not the point!) so I decided to let Marcus used a bit of logical, 21<em>_st__ Century know-how to circumvent a scripted quest. Fingerprinting is a technique that has been in use since the early 1900's, so it's entirely possible that it could be done without modern technology. Consider this a little "CSI: Skyrim" compliments of me. *wink*]_


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

As much as Marcus would have loved to stay in Whiterun longer, to help Sofie adapt to her new family, he felt a pressing need to return to Riften to investigate the truth of Aventus Arentino's claims about Honorhall Orphanage. He still couldn't quite believe the boy's claim that the Jarl didn't care about the children there. If it had been Ulfric, he could have believed it, but he had never met the Jarl of Riften, who Lydia told him was a woman named Laila Law-Giver. Just the name sounded promising.

He told Sofie on the way back to Whiterun about the town, the people and about her new family, and she was shyly excited to meet them. He hoped Blaise and Lucia would be as eager to meet their new sister.

He needn't have worried. Lucia took to Sofie right away, thrilled to have a big sister. She took the older girl into the room they would share, and though it wasn't quite finished and was still a bit crowded, they both assured their Papa that they would make it work.

_Bunk beds,_ he thought._ They need bunk beds in here._

Blaise was more reserved, but he was the quieter of the two. He welcomed Sofie kindly and told her if there was anything she wanted to know about Whiterun to just ask him. He had thrown himself into learning all he could about his new home town, and was rapidly becoming quite the expert.

Marcus remained in Whiterun the day after he brought Sofie home to make sure she was settling in alright, and he promised her that after a short trip to Riften he would return home and spend more time with all of them.

"Are you going to help Aventus?" she asked quietly, so her new brother and sister wouldn't ask too many questions. He appreciated her discretion.

"Not the way he hopes I will," he assured her. "I'm just going to talk to the woman and see what's going on."

Sofie nodded, reassured, but her eyes were troubled. She didn't share her thoughts with Marcus, however, but smiled at Lucia who came running up to ask her if she wanted to go outside and play tag with the other children. The two girls took off together.

Later in the evening, he told Lydia of the events that had taken place in Windhelm, and she agreed he should head out to Riften as soon as possible.

"Try not to pick up any more strays, my Thane," she teased him. "I don't know where we'll put them!"

"I promise nothing," he grinned.

This time his trip to Riften was uneventful. He traveled alone, not seeing the need to bring anyone with him. The guards at the gate said nothing to him this time, and even the sour-faced bouncer guy lingering near the bridge was absent. In the market area, he saw the Argonian jeweler, the sneering armorer and the Dunmer merchant, all hawking their wares. Brynjolf was absent, and his stall was empty.

"Just packed up and left after that girl came through last week," Brand-Shei told him. "Pretty little thing, too, for a Breton."

"Brynjolf didn't seem to be the kind of man to fall for a pretty face," Marcus remarked.

"Oh, he loves the ladies," Brand-Shei shrugged. "They love him, too, apparently. But I'm glad to see he's not trying to swindle honest folk with his snake-oil medicines anymore."

_Well, there _is_ that, _Marcus thought.

"So," Brand-Shei continued. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I was hoping to find out a little more about the Orphanage here," Marcus said. "I'm not even sure where it's located."

"Over there," Brand pointed, "across the canal from the Scorched Hammer. Why are you interested in the Orphanage? Looking to adopt? You can save yourself the trouble."

"Oh?" Marcus perked up. "Why?"

"I've been here in the market stall for forty years," Brand said. "I've got a nice clear view of the place when I walk around the market, and in all that time, I've never seen one single child come out of there with a new family."

"Not one?" Marcus asked skeptically. "That seems hard to believe. Surely some of them—"

"Not. One." Brand emphasized. "Lots of 'em go in, like back during the Great War, and even now with the conflict going on, but the only ones to come out of there are teen-agers barely able to support themselves."

Dreading his next question, Marcus asked, "What happens to them then?"

Brand-Shei shook his head sadly. "Most of 'em turn to a life of crime, not knowin' any other way to get by. The girls end up working at Haelga's, if she takes 'em on, or turnin' tricks down in the Ratway. The boys…and some of the girls, too…usually get taken in by the Guild, but only the clever ones survive."

"Working at Haelga's doesn't sound so bad," Marcus began, but stopped when Brand gave him a queer look. "What?" he demanded. "I haven't stayed there, but it's an inn, right?"

Brand chuckled, and it was the sound of a man who couldn't believe someone was so clueless. Marcus didn't like being the target of that amusement.

The Dunmer lowered his voice slightly. "Haelga worships Dibella," he said finally, as if that explained everything. Marcus looked at him blankly. "The Goddess of….Love," the dark elf grinned.

_Oh._

The light clicked on and Marcus couldn't prevent the look of shock that flashed across his face. Brand-Shei saw it, and nodded. "Now you know what I meant about the girls that come out of the Orphanage."

"And the Jarl does nothing about this?" he demanded.

"I doubt she even cares what happens down here in the city," Brand-Shei scoffed. "As long as it doesn't affect her up at Mistveil Keep, nothing changes."

Marcus was getting heartily sick of government officials who didn't care about the people they governed.

_Thought I left all that crap behind when I was brought here,_ he brooded. But he supposed corruption bred anywhere people in power strove to keep that power.

He thanked Brand-Shei for the information, but decided it might be wise to get a second opinion. He got more than an earful from Drifa Honey-Hand, who was admiring some jewelry the Argonian merchant, Madesi, had on display.

"Ugh! Don't get me started!" she exclaimed. "It's just the sort of thing my Bersi keeps going on about. I swear he's going to be the death of me! He's so worried about the people of Riften, and doesn't seem to worry enough about himself."

"So what can you tell me about the Orphanage?" Marcus asked quickly, unwilling to be side-tracked into the private squabbles between a husband and wife.

"Well, it's run by a woman named Grelod the Kind," Drifa said. "But from what I hear, she's anything but. She took over the Orphanage a long time ago, before I was even born. Been running it ever since, but I don't think I remember hearing about any adoptions, unless she handles those privately."

_That was entirely possible,_ Marcus thought to himself. "What about reports of the children being thrown out onto the streets?" he asked aloud.

Drifa shuddered. "I've heard those, too, but I couldn't tell you if they're true or not."

"It's true," rasped a quavering voice behind them. Drifa recoiled, but Marcus turned to see a beggar woman seated on the ground near some crates next to Brynjolf's stall.

"You're intruding on a private conversation, Edda," Drifa scolded, but Marcus raised a forestalling hand.

"No, no," he said. "I'd like to hear what she has to say."

Drifa sniffed and took her leave, and Marcus lowered himself to squat next to Edda.

"Tell me what you know, Edda," he said kindly.

"The colors…" she muttered. "The colors…they're so bright! I can't stand them."

_She's a bit…unhinged,_ he thought. Or this was a comparatively successful ploy she used to gain sympathy from travelers like him who might be inclined to drop a coin or two into her hands.

He dug into his belt pouch and pulled out a septim, holding it up. Edda's eyes glinted as she fixed her gaze on the gold coin.

"Tell me about Honorhall," Marcus encouraged.

"No training…no education…no love," Edda wheezed. "Grelod the Kind…Grelod the Unkind."

"You said it was true that the children were thrown into the streets," he prompted.

"Yes…true," Edda mumbled and turned her despairing eyes to look at him. "I was one…thirty years ago. Grelod threw me out…said I was too old to stay. Sold my body. Sold my soul. Nothing left now."

Pity washed over him. How many had suffered like Edda in all those years, he wondered. He felt the dangerous stirrings of his inner dragon rumbling.

"Why, Edda?" he asked now. "Why does Grelod run the Orphanage if she hates children so much?"

"She got money from the Jarl. Laila's father. He set her up to take care of his by-blows. His by Grelod. His by other women. I saw the journals. The letters. He paid her money for each child in her care. Until they turned sixteen. So no adoptions. Not for his children. Not for any after. I saw the proof. She caught me. Beat me. Put me in the Pit. But I knew the truth. She threw me out soon after that. When I turned sixteen."

Marcus sat back on his haunches. It made sense now.

From what Edda told him, Jarl Laila's father had been in a clandestine relationship with Grelod, among others. When she became pregnant, he set her up with the Orphanage, conveniently located next to Mistveil Keep. He had his lover close by, and any children they had together were passed off as orphans. She must have done something to hide her condition from the rest of Riften, if she ever left the Orphanage at all.

When their relationship cooled and he moved on to other women, he brought them to her to take care of. Marcus would bet dollars to donuts that the Jarl threatened dire consequences to Grelod if she adopted out his illegitimate children by other women. Some men just liked to see the proof of their own virility. Having to spend day after day taking care of your ex-lover's children was probably what soured Grelod on children in the first place.

So she couldn't or wouldn't adopt the children out. And if the old Jarl was subsidizing her operation by giving her an amount of gold for every child in the Orphanage, what better way for her to build her own nest egg than to legitimately take in orphans across Skyrim, as long as the government – the Jarl in this case – was footing the bill? Once she could no longer receive a subsidy for them, at age sixteen, she kicked them out.

Marcus was quite certain the old Jarl intended for the money to be used to help raise, train and educate the children until they grew into useful, productive citizens of the Rift. Grelod must have come up with some kind of cover story for him when she turned them out, if he even bothered to find out about them at all. He wondered how much of this Laila Law-Giver knew. Probably not much.

"Thank you, Edda," he said now, handing her the coin, and adding two more to it. "You've been very helpful."

Edda's eyes widened at the sight of the coins. She smiled at him and said softly, "The gods look favorably on the charitable soul."

Standing, Marcus turned and made his way across the wooden causeway over to Honorhall. It was relatively warm, for Skyrim, and a clear sunny afternoon, yet he heard no sounds of children out in the walled-in yard. He couldn't see over it, but if children had been playing there, he should have heard _something._

Opening the door, the first thing he noticed was an older woman's voice raised in a tone of stern lecturing. Peering around the corner he saw four children assembled in front of a gaunt, old crone in a plain dress. She had a very stout looking stick in one hand which she waved threatening at the children.

"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. Do I make myself clear?"

There was a mumbled chorus of, "Yes, Grelod."

"And one more thing," Grelod continued unpleasantly. "There will be no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff is getting adopted. _Ever!_ Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my darlings, is why you're here. Why you will always be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world. Now, what do you all say?" She raised the stick expectantly.

The children responded immediately with hopelessness disguised as enthusiasm. "We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness."

"That's better," Grelod sneered. "Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes."

The children hurried out a side door that appeared to lead outside. When it closed behind them, Grelod turned back and seemed to notice Marcus standing there for the first time.

"Well?" she demanded harshly. "What do _you_ want? You have no business being in here. Get out!"

"I came to inquire about adoption," Marcus said, pleased at how well he hid his distaste for the woman.

"Adoption?" She smirked unpleasantly. "We don't have any children available."

"I just saw four of them go out that door," Marcus protested, as if he were a genuine potential parent.

"I said there aren't any available," Grelod growled. "Now are you going to leave, or do I have to call the Riften guard?"

"Some of them must get adopted," Marcus persuaded. "They can't stay here forever."

Grelod gave a long, scathing cackle that sounded suspiciously like Maiara when she found something exceedingly amusing that usually meant something terrible was about to happen to someone else.

"They'll stay here as long as I say they do," Grelod told him. "And the longer you stay, the worse it will be for those little knee-biters out there. Now for the last time, get out of here!"

Fuming, Marcus left. He stood outside the door for several minutes, composing himself. Dimly, he was aware that while the children were clearly in the yard on the other side of the wall, there was no sound of playing.

_She needs to die,_ his inner dragon roared.

_I'm not going to kill her in cold blood,_ he simmered. _Even if she deserves it._

_Challenge her to a duel,_ the dragon insisted. _She must pay for her insolence!_

_Not going to happen,_ he gritted.

_We can Shout her to death,_ his dragon grumbled.

_You're not helping._

Making a decision, Marcus turned and mounted the steps to Mistveil Keep. He'd just see what the Jarl had to say about this.

Laila Law-Giver was lounging languidly on her throne when Marcus was permitted into her presence.

"How may I help you today, young man?" she asked, friendly enough. Beside her, an Altmer woman sat quietly, paying close attention to her Jarl. Behind, and to either side, two young men who looked enough like Laila to be her sons scowled at each other from separate corners of the room.

_Looks like some sibling rivalry going on there,_ Marcus thought to himself. He and his sister had certainly had their squabbles growing up, but they'd become close as they'd gotten older. These two young men looked as though they'd like to stab the other's eyes out.

"I wanted to speak with you about the Orphanage, Jarl," Marcus said.

"The Orphanage?" Laila repeated. "You mean Honorhall? What about it?"

"I was curious to know why the children aren't being adopted out," Marcus said.

"They're not?" the Jarl said. "Why that's ridiculous! Of course they're being adopted. That's what the establishment is for."

"No, my lady, they're not," Marcus insisted. "I just spoke with the Headmistress, Grelod the Kind, who pretty much threw me out of there when I inquired."

Laila frowned and turned to the Altmer woman next to her. "Anuriel, what do you know of this matter?"

Anuriel threw a sharp look at Marcus before smiling at her Jarl. "There must be some simple misunderstanding, my Jarl," she soothed. "Maven assures me that the Orphanage is doing an excellent job at providing for those poor, unfortunate children. They have food, shelter and clothing, which they would not otherwise have."

"And what about education?" Marcus cut in. "What about training in a career…an apprenticeship to one of the tradespeople in the town, so they can learn skills that will help them provide for themselves when they're too old to remain at Honorhall?"

Anuriel gave him a look that spoke volumes. It clearly said, _Stay out of this!_

"I can assure you, my Jarl, that everything is being done to see to the needs of the children," Anuriel said. "I have Maven's word on that."

"Well, then," Laila said brightly, beaming at Marcus. "You see? It's all being taken care of. But thank you for your concern. We need more people like you in my city."

He was being dismissed, and he knew it, and it rankled. Especially when Anuriel narrowed her eyes at him. He decided to give it one more shot.

"Jarl Laila," he said, "aren't you even concerned about the money you're spending on Honorhall? About the accountability and making sure it's being spent on the children?"

Laila blinked at him, then smiled again. "Oh, I see! You think that _I_ fund the institution! Oh, no, not anymore. It's true my father founded it years ago, before I was born, but Maven Black-Briar took it over about ten years ago, and it's been her concern ever since."

And that was that. Marcus bowed stiffly and left the Keep, mulling over what he'd learned.

Maven owned the Orphanage, not the Jarl. Maven funded the place, not Laila Law-Giver. Maven Black-Briar, who – according to the thug who had threatened him on his first trip here – had the guards in her pocket, the Thieves' Guild at her back, and even – if rumors were to be believed – had connections to the Dark Brotherhood.

She owned the meadery in town, as well. So the children who came out of Honorhall, untrained, unschooled, were the perfect employee for her, and the perfect recruits for the Thieves' Guild who "watched her back." He wondered if Brynjolf knew or cared where his raw recruits came from. Or perhaps Brynjolf had _been_ one of those scared kids, shoved out into an unkind, unfeeling world, forced to do whatever he could to survive and get by. Rising up through the ranks of the Guild, he would have been more than willing to take and train those kids, to repay what the Guild had done for him.

Marcus shook his head. He was sick of corruption. His own world had been rife with it. He had never played the video game, "Skyrim", but he wondered now how much of what he'd seen so far had been written into it.

The afternoon was wearing on towards evening, and Marcus knew he had to make a decision. Grelod's death would certainly make a lot of children happy, he thought, but he was still against killing her in cold blood. He decided to try talking to her one more time, and returned to the Orphanage.

Entering the building once more, he saw the other woman, the younger one, who also lived here. Aventus had told him this would be Constance Michel. "Don't hurt her," Aventus begged. "She's nice to us."

"Miss Michel?" he asked, startling her. She dropped the basket of laundry she held with a small yelp. Ragged clothing fell all over the floor.

"I'm sorry!" Marcus said kindly. "I didn't mean to startle you. Here, let me help you with that."

"Oh, no, please, it's alright!" she said breathlessly, grabbing at the rags and shoving them back into the basket. "You shouldn't be in here. Please, you should go before Grelod see you." She looked up as he handed her a couple of tunics that were just out of her reach. "You! You were in here earlier, I remember you!"

She looked around furtively and hissed in a whisper, "Please go! If Grelod finds you've come back, I'm afraid of what she might do to the children!"

"It's the children whom I want to help," Marcus insisted.

"You can't," Constance sighed, hanging her head. "There aren't any up for adoption right now."

"Is this how they live?" Marcus asked. "What kind of life is that for them?"

Constance nodded. "Sadly, yes, it is. The townsfolk call her 'Grelod the Kind', but it's a sort of dark, running joke. Grelod runs this orphanage because she's old, and set in her ways, and doesn't know any other life. These children need love and comfort." Her eyes began to well with unshed tears of frustration. "I try, but…I'm sorry. You really need to go. The children aren't up for adoption, and it's cruel to get their hopes up. Besides…Grelod hates…visitors."

_Especially visitors who ask too many pointed questions_, Marcus thought grimly. "Alright," he said finally. "I'll just show myself out, then. Thank you for your time."

Constance nodded and took the basket of laundry down a flight of stairs, probably to wash them in the canal.

Left alone, Marcus crept down the hall past the rows of child-sized beds. He noted with horror and disgust that each was fitted with a set of shackles just small enough to fit a child's ankle.

_She chains them to their beds at night!_ his dragon howled.

A room at the far end turned out to be Grelod's private chamber. Inside was a bed, night stand, chair and dresser. There was nothing extravagant or lavish in here, as if Grelod had pocketed the money given to her for the support and care of the children. Where had all the money gone, then? Or did Grelod now simply submit bills to Maven who paid them?

"What are you doing in here?" a harsh voice demanded.

_Uh oh._ He turned around to face a furious Grelod, rage all over her face, tightly gripping the stick with which she beat the children.

Her eyes widened in recognition as he turned to her. _"You!"_ she shrieked. "I told you to get out of here! I won't stand for this! Those brats are staying here until _I _say they leave!"

"What, so you can throw them out on the street, uneducated, untrained, and unable to fend for themselves?" he threw at her. "That's pretty harsh."

"Life is harsh, in case you didn't notice," she snarled at him. "The world isn't a rosy place where parents love their children and take care of them. They throw them out because it's just too much trouble to take care of them. They either learn to survive or they die. That's the harsh reality of it, so they might as well get used to it."

"Are we talking about them, Grelod, or you?" Marcus shot back, instinct telling him this was personal for her.

"_HOW DARE YOU! YOU INSOLENT PIG! YOU FILTHY, GRASPING, PAWING MAN!"_

_Oh, I think we struck a nerve,_ his inner dragon gloated. Marcus smugly agreed.

"_You think all women are your private playthings and you can just do what you want with them!"_ she screamed. _"You think you can just have your fun and walk away she tells you she's carrying your child!" _Grelod's voice had risen at least another octave in pitch and was so loud they couldn't fail to hear her in Mistveil Keep. _"You take her best years and walk away when she's too old to be of use! You make her raise your own by-blows by her successors!"_

Grelod was literally spitting with rage, and her face was an unhealthy shade of reddish-purple.

"Your past has nothing to do with their present!" Marcus said hotly. "They're basically helpless and depend on you. I would think you'd want to help them, to keep what happened to you from happening to them!"

"_YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT WHAT I WENT THROUGH!" _she howled, but privately Marcus felt that even if he hadn't spoken with Edda, he could have pieced it together through Grelod's tirade. _"THOSE BRATS ARE NOTHING TO ME, AND YOU—and you-" _

Grelod gasped and clutched her chest. Alarmed, Marcus moved to help her sit down, but she stumbled away from him, out into the main hall, where the children had come in from outside and hovered near the door.

"You bastard!" Grelod wheezed. "You've…killed…me…."

She sank to the floor, eyes rolling back into her head. Quickly Marcus knelt down and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

_Holy fuck, what have I done?_

"By the Divines!" Constance cried behind him, startling him. "What have you done?"

"She's dead!" one of the boys crowed. "Grelod the Kind is dead!"

"Aventus really did it," the girl cheered. "He sent the Dark Brotherhood to kill Grelod!"

"Mara preserve us!" Constance gasped, her hand to her mouth. "You're…you're an assassin?"

"NO!" Marcus insisted, "I didn't touch her!" He looked helplessly down at Grelod. Damn it! He should have taken a class in First Aid. Lynne had, and wanted him to do it with her, but he hadn't been interested enough to bother. Lynne had earned her certification and learned how to do CPR. He wished he'd taken the time now. He had no idea what to do.

Constance began screaming in terror, running for the front door. The children were all dancing around, cheering.

"He's so good, he didn't even have to touch her!" one of the boys said admiringly.

This was quickly going to Hell in a hand-basket.

"Guard! _Guard!" _Constance cried from the doorway.

_Better part of valor, Marcus,_ his inner dragon warned. Right. How to get out of here before the guards showed up?

"This way!" the girl hissed, beckoning. She pointed to a stairway leading down. The same stairway Constance had disappeared down earlier with the laundry.

Marcus nodded, making a break for it. "I owe you one, sweetheart!" he murmured to her, making her beam.

The stairs led down to a cellar with only one other door that opened into a short tunnel, which in turn opened onto the Ratway at canal level. The sluice gate at this end was normally kept closed, but twice a day both gates were opened to allow fresh lake water to be pumped through to flush the canal – and anything in it – out into Lake Honrich.

Having few options, Marcus jumped into the canal, came up immediately for air, and began swimming for all he was worth out the gate and into the lake. He continued around the fishery, coming ashore near the stables. Soaking wet, and not liking the smell that clung to him, Marcus decided not to wait for a carriage.

"How much for a horse?" he asked Shadr, who gazed at him in amazement.

"What happened to you?" the young Redguard asked.

"I'll explain later," Marcus insisted. "How much for a horse?"

"Hofgrir handles the sale of the horses," Shadr told him. He called the man over, and the transaction was swiftly made, though Marcus felt the one thousand gold price tag was a bit steep. It had taken nearly all the coin he carried on him. But at least he could get away. The dappled gray mare stood patiently waiting while he attempted to mount. And he realized another problem. He didn't know how to ride.

Shadr very gallantly helped him get mounted, murmured a few instructions and warned him to hang on tight if wolves were around because Sadie – the horse – didn't like wolves and would tend to bolt.

"She's fast," he told Marcus, "and she'll probably outrun them, but you'd better hang on tight."

As Marcus rode away, bumpily, he knew he was going to regret this in the morning.

_I'm regretting it now. _He knew instinctively that the little voice wasn't talking about horseback riding.

Marcus turned a sour thought directed at his inner dragon. _Weren't you the one who wanted to kill her?_

The dragon sniffed. _We both did. I prefer a more hands-on approach._

_Just who _are_ you, anyway?_ Marcus asked privately, while he hung on desperately to the saddle horn with one hand.

There was smugness in the reply. _Took you long enough to ask._

_Well?_

There was a pause. _You're not ready for the answer._

_Try me,_ he argued. _I think I am._

_That only proves that you aren't,_ his dragon said smugly, and subsided.

Marcus rode on through the night, and he had to admit that it got easier the further along he went. He kept to the roads, to avoid most of the wildlife, and because it was easier than trying to negotiate unknown territory in the dark. Sadie proved just how fast she could run when bandits stepped out from a copse of trees to attack. Clustered together, it was easy to use Unrelenting Force to blow them away and then dig his heels into Sadie and encourage her to put some distance between them. The howls and cries of disappointment behind him left him feeling smugly satisfied.

His original intention had been to just go home, but Marcus had promised Aventus he would return to let him know how the situation had been resolved. Besides, if he was being pursued, he didn't want to lead anyone to his home. Not that he thought the Riften guards would follow him to Whiterun Hold. That wasn't their jurisdiction. And honestly, he didn't know if anyone at Honorhall – or Mistveil Keep – even knew who he was. He'd never given his name.

He made it to the Windhelm stables just as the sun was coming up and left Sadie in their care, heading into town. He was stiff and sore from having ridden all night, but he quickly downed a healing potion with a stamina chaser before slipping into Aventus' home.

The boy was ecstatic when Marcus told him only that Grelod was dead, but not how she died.

"I knew you could do it!" he crowed, dancing about. "I can't wait to see my friends again! It'll be a _lot_ nicer there, now old Grelod's gone! Here!"

He presented Marcus with a simple silver platter. "It's a family heirloom," he told Marcus. "I know these…things don't come cheap, so this should fetch you a fair amount of gold in payment."

Marcus wanted to refuse it; it was a cheap bit of silver, really, but the boy seemed to have his heart set on some kind of reward, and Marcus was reluctant to dim the hope that shone in the young lad's eyes for the first time since he'd met him. He accepted the platter graciously and ensured that Aventus would keep his promise to return to Honorhall.

"I promise, I will!" Aventus exclaimed, solemnly. "Like I said, with Grelod gone, I think my life has just gotten a whole lot better!"

For a heartbeat, Marcus was tempted to make him an even better offer, but he hesitated. Aventus had been dabbling with some pretty dark and dangerous rituals. Who knew what repercussions might come from that? What might have happened if the _real_ Dark Brotherhood had shown up? Somehow they didn't strike him as an organization that would care if the client was only ten years old. They might even have been upset at being contacted over such a paltry contract rewarded by nothing better than a cheap silver platter.

Marcus shuddered inwardly. He was quite sure Aventus didn't fully appreciate the danger he'd put himself into by trying to summon paid assassins. Be that as it may, the fact that he was aware of them, as a ten-year-old, was disturbing; that he had tried to summon them, even more so; that he had hated someone enough to want to see them dead, and to actually take steps to carry it out, appalling. Marcus knew he didn't want that anywhere near his family. Let someone adopt Aventus who knew nothing about this business. The boy, by his own admission, missed his friends at Honorhall, and seemed willing to return now. Marcus was certain that Constance would take over management – he couldn't see Laila or Maven doing it – and the children would all finally get a chance to be adopted into permanent homes.

It really was the best possible solution. Hating himself for his shallowness, Marcus bid farewell to Aventus, and slipped a few more coins into the night stand unnoticed as he left the house.

He reclaimed Sadie from the stable and agonizingly hauled himself into the saddle. It was a long, painful ride back to Whiterun, made worse by the plaguing thoughts of his conscience. He left Sadie at the Whiterun stables with enough coin for the stablemaster, Skulvar, to see to her needs for a week, and headed home. He needed a bath, food and sleep, in that order, and he bloody well intended to get some.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Just a short one this time, setting the stage for future events. And I think we all know where this will lead. I hope you enjoyed my way of Marcus taking out Grelod without laying a hand (or a Shout) on her. It was inspired, and I've been chuckling about it for days until I could get it written.]<em>


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

The slim, brown leather-covered volume had lain in his nightstand for weeks now, since he had returned from the Thalmor Embassy. There had been so much going on that Marcus had completely forgotten about it. The small table by his bed was one he used to put journals and letters he'd picked up in his travels, and he was getting quite a collection by now. It wasn't that he was a pack-rat or anything, he just couldn't bring himself to toss them onto a trash heap and watch them burn.

Now he took it out. "FOR FIRST EMISSARY ELENWEN'S EYES ONLY", it read. This should prove interesting reading.

It was, indeed. It appeared Elenwen knew more about the preparedness of a second assault on the Empire than she would ever admit, even to her own associates.

"_Maven has been a valuable ally,"_ the journal read. _"Her contacts with her 'business' partners has given us access to resources that will enable us to move more freely throughout this stinking abscess they call 'Skyrim'."_

That had to refer to the Thieves' Guild, Marcus thought, or possibly the Dark Brotherhood, if those rumors were to be believed.

"_Maven also assures me she is taking the necessary steps to turn the Rift over to the Imperials. The doddering fool who sits the throne now is completely unaware of what transpires under her own nose. Maven is convinced my agent works for her, but she vastly underestimates the hold I have over Riften's Steward."_

Anuriel. She was a Thalmor plant.

_I knew there was something about her I didn't like,_ Marcus thought grimly to himself. He didn't think too much of Riften's Jarl; the woman seemed far too clueless to be in such a position of power.

_That's never stopped anyone from inheriting a throne before._

He was forced to agree with his inner dragon. But what steps was Maven taking? Was she planning some kind of coup, to overthrow Laila? And what would Laila be able to do, if it happened? How many of the guards were in Maven's pay?

_Too many questions, not enough answers,_ he sighed in frustration. The journal in his possession was a start, but before he could openly accuse Maven of treason, he needed something stronger, some incontrovertible proof that she was plotting against Laila.

Deciding to shelve it for now, Marcus put the journal away and blew out the candle. He planned to spend a couple of days at home before making another attempt at getting to Winterhold. Hopefully, this time, he could actually get there without something waylaying him.

He spent most of the next two days at Warmaiden's working the forge, improving his weapons and armor, and trying some new techniques Adrianne taught him on working with orichalcum. He'd built up quite a large collection of ingots – iron, steel and corundum – and was running out of room in the cabinet by the front door where he stored it all. Since Adrianne had taken on a large contract from Idolaf Battle-Born to provide weapons and armor for the Imperials, Marcus offered to help her out and Adrianne agreed to buy whatever he could make. It was a nice little arrangement. Blaise spent most of his time watching his father work, and ended up helping Adrianne out with little tasks here and there.

"Your son's a hard worker," Adrianne told him, watching the boy scraping down leather hides. Tall for his age, and already showing signs of developing muscles, the red-haired boy easily manipulated the heavy scraper against the thick hide stretched on the frame. When he felt the hide begin to slack, he tugged on the thongs which held it in place to tighten it and refastened them securely before resuming his methodical rhythm.

"He always was," Marcus said proudly.

"You know," Adrianne mused now, "he's about the right age to begin an apprenticeship. What do you think?"

"I have no objections," Marcus smiled. "Why don't you ask him?"

Blaise was excited about the prospect of learning something other than tending goats and weeding gardens, and so it was arranged he begin his training immediately. Apprenticeships, Adrianne told him, usually ran for a period of five years. Blaise would work exclusively for her, do whatever tasks she set for him, and in return she would teach him everything she knew about the smithing trade. He would also receive a small stipend, pocket money to spend, which meant he would no longer need the allowance Marcus had been giving him.

At the end of his apprenticeship, he would be a full-fledged blacksmith in his own right, able to start his own business somewhere else, or continue to work for Adrianne if he chose. Marcus was delighted. It was a far better future than Blaise could have expected, working for Katla in Solitude.

"Papa, can I be an apprentice too?" Sofie asked later that evening as they sat down to the evening meal.

"Me too!" Lucia chimed in. "I wanna be an apprentice!"

Lydia chuckled. "What would you be an apprentice for, little one? I don't think you're big enough to lift a hammer."

"I didn't mean like Blaise," Lucia said. "I wanna be a bard!" She hadn't stopped talking about the Bard's College since they had returned from Solitude.

"It must be nice to be able to make your own music," Sofie said wistfully. Lucia had valiantly tried to teach her older sister the lute, but Sofie's fingers weren't as nimble and quick as Lucia's, and she just couldn't get it.

"Maybe you could learn the flute?" Blaise offered helpfully.

"I'd still need to use my fingers," Sofie said, grinning self-effacingly. "I'll just enjoy the music you two make."

"If you were old enough to learn a trade, Sofie, what might it be?" Lydia asked, curious.

The Nord girl considered carefully. "Well, I've always liked flowers, and Mister Quintus in Windhelm used to tell me what some of them could do, if they were mixed in potions. I think I might like to become an alchemist."

"You're a bit young to be an apprentice, sweetheart," Marcus said.

"I am now," Sofie nodded. "But I'll get older soon enough."

Marcus was discovering more and more the delightful differences in his children. Blaise's personality was the quiet determination of a hard worker and dedicated scholar. Lucia was a cuddle-bug, who loved nothing more than to curl up with her Papa and be told stories. Sofie was the calm in the center of a storm; a wise-beyond-her-years presence that would endure whatever life would throw at her and come out still standing on the other side. He loved them all, more deeply than he imagined possible.

There was a knock at the door, and Lydia went to answer it, returning shortly with a sealed parchment, which she gave to Marcus. He opened it and saw it was from someone named Calcelmo in Markarth.

"Calcelmo," he said thoughtfully. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"Wasn't he the one that wrote that book you have, Dad?" Blaise asked. "The one about the dwarves?"

"I have several books about the dwarves, son," Marcus replied.

"I'll go get it," Blaise said, jumping up. "I was reading it the other night." He left and went upstairs, to return quickly with the slim volume, simply entitled _Dwarves, v.1._ "See?" Blaise pointed out on the flyleaf the name "Calcelmo, Scholar of Markarth."

"I didn't know you knew him, Dad!" Blaise said now, impressed.

"I don't," Marcus chuckled, ruffling the lad's head when his face fell. "I've never met the man, and can't imagine why he'd be contacting me."

"What does his letter say, Papa?" Sofie asked eagerly.

Marcus cleared his throat and read the note out loud.

"_Marcus Dragonborn,_

_It has come to my attention you may have recently acquired a certain Dwemer dagger from Mouldering Ruins. I'm not sure how such an object came to find itself resting there…but I've been trying to obtain one for my research._

_If you still have it, or if not, find another one, I would be most appreciative if you were to bring it to me here in Markarth. I will pay handsomely._

_Sincerely, Calcelmo."_

How in the world did the man know what he'd picked up in that vampire lair? Marcus wondered.

_Did you have anything to do with this?_ he asked the dragon in his mind, but the presence refused to answer.

"Are you going to go to Markarth, Dad?" Blaise asked now. "Are you going to see Calcelmo?" It was clear the man was some sort of hero to the boy, with his knowledge of the dwarves of ancient times. "Could I go with you?"

"You just started working for Adrianne, remember?" Marcus said gently. The boy's face fell.

"Oh, yeah, that's right." He recovered quickly, however, and put on a brave face. "But you could go and tell me all about it when you get back! And maybe…maybe he could sign the book for us?"

"We'll see," Marcus said. "Kind of makes me wish I had the other volumes in the set, now," he added, amused. "But I only found that one."

"Are you going to go tomorrow, Papa?" Lucia asked.

He hesitated. He really needed to get to Winterhold. But he'd put it off this long; a day or two more, just to see the man who had made an effort to contact him over a Dwarven-made dagger, wouldn't hurt anything. The children certainly seemed eager to find out why this Calcelmo had contacted their Papa. He'd be back in no time and _then_ nothing would keep him from going up to the mages' College.

* * *

><p>Markarth was literally a city carved out of stone. Set back against the rugged cliffs of the Reach, the entrance resembled Petra, a large, sprawling ancient city carved from the sandstone of the Jordanian deserts of his old world. The façade had been featured prominently in the third <em>Indiana Jones<em> movie.

Unlike Petra, however, Markarth was a booming, bustling city, and in another departure from the ancient Jordanian city, Markarth was open to the sky. While there was every possibility that at one time the majority of the buildings had been hidden deep within the cliff, some ancient near-catastrophe had opened it up, allowing fresh air and the elements to work their inexorable effects on the weathered stone.

As he passed through the front gates Marcus stopped for a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty and ingenuity of the lost race that had built such amazing constructs.

The _shing_ of a blade being drawn grabbed his attention, however, and he saw a man closing in on a woman nearby, knife out and ready to take her life.

Without thinking, he leaped forward and with a quick disarming move, knocked the dagger out of the man's hand before wrestling him to the ground.

"No!" the man cried. "The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

"Stop struggling!" Marcus warned him as the guards approached.

"Step back, citizen," one of the guards warned Marcus. "We've got this under control."

Marcus wasn't so sure. The man seemed violent, still thrashing around. "Have you got anything to bind his wrists?" he asked, as the man valiantly tried to throw Marcus off his back.

"I said back away, citizen," the guard warned, leveling his sword. _"Now!"_

_This is stupid!_ Marcus thought. _This guy's going to make a break for it!_

But the guards were closing in, menacingly, and Marcus reluctantly rose to his feet, still holding onto the attempted murderer.

"Let him go," the guard said warningly. Marcus did so. And as expected, the man bolted for the gates.

"The Reach belongs to the Forswor—_aaahhh!" _ The last past was screamed in agony as the guards cut him down trying to escape.

"You wanted that to happen, you bastard," Marcus gritted out, clenching his fists in fury.

"Outsiders aren't welcome here in Markarth, stranger," the guard said smugly. "Best keep that in mind." To the gathering crowd, the man said, "There's nothing to see here. There are no Forsworn in the city. The Markarth guard has this all under control. Go on about your businesses!"

Marcus stood there for several minutes, seething, and making a valiant effort not to send the guard flying down the street with his Unrelenting Force.

The woman, who had almost been a victim, was being comforted by a Redguard jeweler near the corner of the general goods store, Arnleif & Sons.

"By the gods, that man was going to kill me!" She saw Marcus and smiled. "You saved my life! Thank you!"

"I'm glad I was able to act quickly," Marcus said, getting himself under control. "Will you be alright?"

"I think so," the woman said, a bit shakily. "My name is Margret, and I'm staying at the Silver-Blood Inn, over there." She pointed across the market square.

"Any idea who that man was?" Marcus asked. "Or why he was trying to kill you?"

"Not here," she whispered, so low he almost didn't catch it. "Come talk to me later, at the Inn." She thanked him again and made her way toward the Silver-Blood Inn.

Blinking in surprise, Marcus filed that away for further deliberation. This wasn't a random attempt, then. And Margret, whoever she was, seemed fully aware that someone was trying to have her killed. He'd go see Calcelmo first, then come back and try to find out more of what was going on.

"My gods," a young man with a tattooed face said. "Did you see that? A woman, nearly murdered right here in the streets! Good thing you were there to prevent it!"

Marcus shrugged. "I guess the gods had a hand in it," he said. He was learning, the longer he lived here in Skyrim, that there was a much more tangible influence from the Divines in this world than there had ever been in the world he'd left behind. He still firmly believed in his One God, but he couldn't deny that other Powers were at work here in Skyrim, and indeed, in this realm of Nirn itself.

"Yes, well, I'd better get going," the young man said. "Oh, I think you dropped this." He pressed a piece of parchment into Marcus' gauntleted hand.

"What's this?" Marcus asked in surprise. Then he dropped his voice. "Is this yours?"

"What?" the other man blinked. "No, that's yours. It must have fallen out of your pocket."

_Except my Blades armor doesn't have pockets,_ Marcus thought to himself, knowing a ploy when he spotted it. This young man wanted something from him; something he trusted enough to put into a quickly scribbled note, but not something he wanted to admit out loud.

"Well, I hope the Eight give you more peace in the future," the young man said. "Farewell." He wandered off down the street.

Shaking his head, Marcus stuffed the note into his belt pouch. With all the guards hovering around, he had no intention of just opening it up and reading it here. He'd wait.

The Redguard jeweler, who introduced herself as Kerah, willingly pointed out Understone Keep to him when he showed her the note from Calcelmo.

"He lives and works up there," she said. "Since you're going up there anyway, do you think you could deliver this ring to him for me? He almost never leaves his studies, and I just can't get away to take it to him. It's already paid for."

"Aren't you afraid I'll just pocket it and walk away?" Marcus asked, a bit concerned about her trusting a complete stranger.

Kerah considered carefully. "Ordinarily, yes," she admitted. "But you just saved the life of a perfect stranger. I think I can trust you."

Humbled by her confidence in him, Marcus promised to deliver the ring, and began the long climb up the canyon sliced through by a gurgling stream and flanked by towering stone edifices and carved stairways.

A man in mage robes was standing outside a house nearby, arguing with one of the locals.

"It's abandoned," the local fellow said firmly. "It's _always_ been abandoned." Marcus didn't hear any more as he continued on his way up.

Eventually he climbed the last set of stairs that took him to the entrance to Understone Keep. Aptly named, since it was clear the Jarl's palace was carved even deeper back into the stone cliff. Pausing to catch his breath, Marcus turned to look at the sun, already lowering in the sky. He'd left Whiterun early that morning, just as the sun was coming up, and in another hour or so the shops here would be closing for the day. He'd taken the carriage, simply because he was still sore from riding Sadie all the way from Riften to Windhelm and back to Whiterun. Blaise had promised to look in on her each day while he was away, and the girls had promised to give her apples and carrots so she wouldn't be "lonely", as Lucia put it. He grinned at the memory.

He hoped Calcelmo would still see him, late as it was. Farengar kept late hours, but only to continue his research, and the only other wizard Marcus knew was Wuunferth – and he didn't know that cantankerous old codger well enough to know what hours he kept.

Inside the main entrance to the keep it opened into a huge, carved-out natural cavern with Dwemer-hewn columns either supporting the roof or blocking the way collapsed across the thoroughfares. Straight ahead was a tunnel, and through it – and beyond it – Marcus caught a glimpse of a flight of stairs leading up to a well-lit area.

To the right, another flight of stone steps led to a set of bronze doors, guarded by a man in Markarth armor. To the left, a crumbling passage led off to another section of the cavern.

"What are you hiding, priest?" a man demanded angrily.

Ahead of him, Marcus saw two men standing near the tunnel which led forward. One was wearing the by-now-familiar robes of a priest of Arkay. The other was an older man in his forties, richly dressed and wearing finely-crafted steel armor.

"I'm not hiding anything," the priest insisted. "It's closed for a reason."

"Typical Imperial lies," the older man spat. "First you take away Talos, now you're keeping us from seeing our honored dead? You and the Jarl will answer for any desecration of my ancestors' bodies!"

"That's enough, Thongvor," the priest said wearily. "We're done here."

Thongvor looked as though he wanted to say more, than gave a disgusted sigh and strode off down the tunnel. The priest heaved a heavy sigh and turned to head down the left-side passage.

"Rough day?" Marcus asked sympathetically as he caught up with the man.

"Are you here to see the Hall of the Dead?" the priest asked. "I'm sorry. Like I told Thongvor, it's closed until further notice."

"No," Marcus said. "I'm not here to pay my respects." The relief on the priest's face was obvious, and telling. "I couldn't help but overhear that exchange. I wondered if there was something I could do to help?"

The priest hesitated for the barest moment, as though considering his options, then finally spoke. "All right," he said with a sigh. "I'm Brother Verelus, and I'm in charge of the Hall of the Dead here. I was going to suggest the Jarl hire someone to sort this mess out, but if you could look into it, I won't need to bother Igmund with it."

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Come with me," Verelus said, putting his hand on Marcus' arm and guiding him down the tunnel. He threw a look behind him at the guards flanking the tunnel. Thongvor was nowhere in sight.

They proceeded down the tunnel for a short way before it opened into another, much larger chamber. Across the bridge over a rushing stream was another huge, carved stone façade. To their right was a small work space complete with an arcane enchanter and alchemy lab. Two men in mages' robes were working in that area, and Marcus made a mental note that one of them must be this Calcelmo he'd come to see.

As Brother Verelus led Marcus to the right, through a stone gazebo, he said quietly, "We've discovered that some of the dead have been…eaten."

Marcus stopped in his tracks, revulsion and horror all over his face. Verelus nodded. "Flesh has been chewed off, bones were snapped to get at the marrow inside. We haven't caught anyone or anything…yet. It's like whatever it is knows when I'm there. If you can get to the bottom of this, the Priesthood of Arkay will reward you."

"I'll do it," Marcus said, taking a deep breath, "but not for any kind of reward. This is just sick and wrong!"

Brother Verelus nodded. "I agree, but I don't expect you to risk your life for nothing. Take my key, and be careful. I don't know what you'll find in there."

The Hall of the Dead was similar to others he'd been in, and by now he'd been through enough barrows that the atmosphere didn't bother him as much as he thought it might have in another place and time. It was quiet, but that was to be hoped for. Noises down here were not a good sign.

The torches still flickered in the drafts that eddied through the catacombs, and Marcus peered into the dim shadows of the niches to either side, to make sure nothing lurked there that shouldn't.

"Well, now," a female voice purred with some amusement. "Not many would walk blindly into a crypt, smelling of steel and blood, but not fear." The voice echoed around the chamber, bounced and distorted off the burial niches and sent a shudder down his spine. It was a low, husky, seductive voice, and it sent a curl through his belly, even as the hairs on the back of his head stood straight up.

"I feel the hunger inside of you," the voice continued. "Gnawing at you. You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls." From seductive, the voice moved into cajoling. "It's all right. I will not shun you for what you are. Stay. I will tell you everything you have forgotten."

Marcus shook his head. _Had_ he forgotten something? Maybe. The voice seemed to know more about it than he did. And she certainly seemed friendly enough.

A woman stepped out from around a corner into the light. Clad in studded armor and carrying a bow and sword, she looked to be in her late twenties, with blonde hair tied back from a face that bore a disfiguring scar down the left side – an old injury that had apparently taken the sight from her left eye.

"You were young when you first tasted human flesh, weren't you?" she asked sympathetically. "A brother or sister had died? An accident, of course. Then the hunger set in. Curiosity. What's the harm in just one bite?" She smiled warmly. "It's okay, now. You've found a friend who understands you. You can let go of your guilt."

Again, he felt the lethargy, the easy feeling of giving in. He could almost remember what he must have blocked from his mind—

_YOU ARE A DRAGON, NOT A CANNIBAL!_

The thought came through loud and clear from that presence in his mind, and Marcus snapped out of whatever charm the woman was attempting to lay on him.

"I'm not like you, bitch!" he snarled, furious at her for trying to make him believe otherwise.

"Then die, you filthy Imperial!" she swore, and immediately gestured with her left hand, limning herself with an iridescent blue glow. She'd put up some kind of magical shield around herself. Whipping the bow off her back, she retreated down the tunnel and fired off several shots with the bow before letting fly with an ice spike.

Marcus dodged the arrow, but the ice spike caught him in the thigh, and he growled as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He didn't want to pursue her deeper into the catacombs because he had no idea how far back into the cliff they went.

He drew his own bow and let fly with arrows of his own. The woman had been using iron; Marcus' were made of Dwemer metal, and did much more damage – if he hit with them, of course.

For several minutes they sniped at each other, firing off shots and retreating, but Marcus had no intention of fighting a war of attrition.

"_Laas,"_ he whispered, and found where she was hiding. He could play ring-around-the-rosie with her all day as they circled around the tombs, but he wanted to end this in _his_ lifetime.

He deliberately stepped into the open and made enough noise to draw her out of hiding. The Aura Whisper had faded now, and he felt his Thu'um recharge.

The woman scuffed her boot across the stone floor, and Marcus turned his head in that direction.

"_ZUN!"_ he Shouted, and to her extreme dismay, her bow went flying. She was not without weapons, however. Electricity charged up in her hand and shot forth, enveloping him. His muscles screamed in protest as everything seized up.

The woman gave a satisfied smile as she advanced with her sword raised to cut him down while still concentrating the flow of electricity at him.

With a supreme effort, Marcus managed to get Dragonsbane up in time to block the blow. He swiped at her with the Blades sword in his other hand, but she dodged out of the way and laughed.

Again, that stream of sparks hit him, and again, Marcus felt every tendon go rigid. He'd almost rather she'd used a cold spell. He could handle that element better. The Blades sword connected with hers as it blocked a cut that would have hurt really badly had it landed. He swept out with Dragonsbane again, and she screeched as she retreated, the spell turning to a healing spell as she repaired the damage done.

Marcus ducked around the corner and pulled a healing potion of his own out of his belt pouch. It wasn't much, but he couldn't take the time to dig through his pack. Chugging the potion, he sent forth another Aura Whisper to locate the woman. She was probably not more than fifty feet away, but there was a twisting corridor between them with lots of places to hide.

Luckily, what the woman had failed to realize was that this section of catacombs didn't extend all the way up to the roof of the cavern above. The passages and niches had been carved down into the floor of the cave. The tops of the niches were the smooth stone of the original floor. Marcus looked up and considered. Ten feet up, maybe twelve. If he was careful and quiet, he could do it.

As quickly as he could, he took a short running leap to grab the lip of the highest niche he could reach and pull himself up. Hand over hand, until his feet found purchase on the niche below, he crawled to the top of this section of tombs. Crouching, he paused, trying to steady his breathing, and once more used Aura Whisper to locate his quarry. She was moving carefully and slowly through the twisting corridor, pausing to listen and look around.

But she didn't look up. _No one ever looks up, _Marcus grinned to himself.

He waited until she had passed his position, then leaped down lightly behind her. She whirled, eyes wide with fear.

"Miss me?" he grinned. _"FUS RO DAH!"_

Bones, crockery and dust blew everywhere as the woman was smashed against the niche behind her. There was a distinctive _snap!_ as the bones in her neck broke, and she slumped to the floor. Cautiously, he prodded her body to be sure she wasn't faking, and then knelt to feel for a pulse. There was nothing.

Searching her body, he discovered a small journal that told him she was Eola, a devotee of Namira, Daedric Prince of Decay; she was a cannibal, and part of a coven that operated out of Reachwater Rock – or at least, they had, until the draugr had awakened and driven them out of Namira's temple. The names of other coven members were also listed in the book. _Hogni Red-Arm, Banning - Markarth Stables, Lisbet - Arnleif & Sons, Sigar. _Marcus pocketed it. The priest of Arkay waited for a report, and he had to see Calcelmo before he could return home.

Looking down at the woman, Eola, once more, Marcus tried to feel something; pity, remorse, sadness. But he felt nothing. Eola had attempted to turn him to her cause, to charm him into believing he had repressed memories of cannibalism. If not for his inner dragon, he might have succumbed.

_You're welcome._

* * *

><p>Brother Verelus was most grateful that the situation had been resolved, but was suitably disturbed by the revelation that there had been a cannibal in the Hall of the Dead. Marcus wasn't sure whether or not to confide in him the names of the others members of Namira's coven; he didn't know them, and wasn't sure what their positions might be in Markarth. He really didn't want to open up another can of worms, so in the end, he kept the knowledge to himself and said nothing.<p>

He accepted Brother Verelus' amulet in return for his services, but only because the man insisted. "It will boost your health while you wear it," he told Marcus, "and I can get another one. Please, take it."

From there it was a short walk over to the area by the stream where the two mages were working. As it happened, they were not men at all, but Altmer.

"Excuse me," he began, "I'm looking for Calcelmo—"

"What are you doing here?" the older of the two elves snapped at him. "The excavation site is closed!"

"What?"

"I don't need any more workers or guards," he said dismissively, turning back to his work.

"I'm not here to work," Marcus said, irritated. "If you're Calcelmo, I was actually looking for you."

This seemed to send Calcelmo into a tirade. "I told you I'm not hiring any more guards!" he bit out. "Why do you people always bother me when I'm trying to finish my research? You idiot! Do you even know who I am? The most recognized scholar on the Dwemer in all of Tamriel, and you people keep bothering me! I…I—"

Suddenly, he seemed to deflate, as though he realized how badly he had overreacted. "I'm sorry," he said contritely. I…I got too excited. I'm in the middle of some very…stressful work and I…and I shouldn't have yelled. How can I help you?"

At first Marcus was tempted to tell the old mage to go to Oblivion. He'd had supervisors and bosses lash out at him like that, however, and knew that he was merely the unfortunate recipient of a backlash of stress being released. Deciding to let it pass – this time – he introduced himself as the one to whom Calcelmo had sent the letter regarding the Dwemer dagger.

"Ah!" Calcelmo said, enthusiastically. "So you're Marcus Dragonborn! Delighted to meet you, sir! And yes, I'm still very much interested in that Dwemer dagger, if you still have it."

Now this was more like it. After talking for several more moments, Marcus pulled the dagger out of his pack and showed it to the old Altmer. His nephew, Aicantar, looked on in mild amusement while Calcelmo launched into a lecture about the Dwemer, to whom he had devoted his life's work.

"Their history and culture is all around us in Markarth," Calcelmo said. "A race of stonecutters, artisans and engineers. They invented machines and built elaborate underground cities where they researched powers to rival the gods themselves. And then, at a time we are still not sure when, they disappeared. The whole people, all at once. Leaving behind only their works."

_No wonder Blaise is fascinated by it all,_ Marcus thought, amused. He mentioned to Calcelmo his son's interest in the Dwemer, and the old mer was more than delighted to autograph the volume Marcus brought with him, and presented the other two volumes – autographed, of course – to him as well. Marcus felt it was payment enough for the dagger. And he knew Blaise would be thrilled.

"Oh, before I forget," Marcus said, "the Redguard jeweler down in the market wanted me to give this to you."

"Kerah!" Calcelmo said. "Of course! I'd forgotten about this! Poor, woman, she's been so patient with me. What can I give you for your trouble?"

"I don't suppose you'd let me see your museum?" Marcus suggested.

Calcelmo turned this over in his mind, "Well…" he began.

"I'd love to be able to tell my son about all the amazing things you've discovered," Marcus coaxed.

"I don't suppose there's any harm in it," Calcelmo agreed. "But I must insist that my laboratory remain undisturbed."

Marcus promised he wouldn't go further than the museum, and spent a couple of very pleasant hours wandering around the displays and exhibits, until the guards pointedly reminded him it was past closing time.

He retraced his steps back down the canyon to the Silver-Blood Inn. It was late, and he was very hungry. Tomorrow he intended to explore more of the town before he returned to Whiterun, but for now all he wanted was food and a soft, comfortable bed.

The Silver-Blood Inn was run by a surly man named Kleppr, and his harpy of a wife named Frabbi. Two younger people, a boy about seventeen or eighteen years old, and a girl who was perhaps a year or two younger, stood nearby, sweeping and polishing while the woman harangued her husband.

"All the wood furniture in this place is rotting to the core. Do you know why that is, Kleppr?"

Kleppr never looked up from wiping down the bar. "I don't know, my darling wife. I assume you're going to tell me?"

Frabbi scowled. "It's rotten because the wood is cheap, and it's soaked with ale!" She advanced on him threateningly, but it didn't faze him a bit. Clearly, this sort of exchange was commonplace between these two. "Now we'll have to replace all the furniture before the bugs set in!"

"Don't worry, my love," Kleppr said in a bored tone. "Just show the bugs your adoring face, and they'll scurry away in complete fear in no time."

One of the patrons nearby sniggered, but quickly buried his face in his mug of ale at the look Frabbi shot him.

"You're an idiot, Kleppr," she sneered. "Why did I ever marry you?"

Kleppr merely rolled his eyes. "Not a day goes by I don't ask that question myself, my dear," he said with a long-suffering sigh.

"Please don't mind the yelling," the young girl said, sidling over to him. "My parents are always going at each other."

"They shouldn't," Marcus said quietly. "Not in front of you, and not in front of their customers. It's not healthy, and it's not good for business."

The girl blinked at him. "You're the first person to ever feel that way!" she exclaimed softly. "Most people here are used to them by now. My father's not really a bad sort. He gives me plenty of spending money."

"Money doesn't always equal happiness," Marcus said.

"Then you're in the wrong city, stranger," she said wearily. "Blood and silver are what run through Markarth." She scurried away to finish polishing the silver before her mother caught her slacking off.

Marcus shook his head and made his way over to the counter. "I'd like a room for the night," he told Kleppr, paying the man.

"Sure thing," he said unctuously. "It's yours for a day. Right this way." He led Marcus down a short corridor and opened a bronze door on the left side. "Let me know if you need anything else," Kleppr smiled.

"Uh..wait a moment," Marcus forestalled him. "Where's the bed?"

Kleppr blinked, then smiled. "Ah, I forget! If you haven't been to Markarth it comes as a bit of a shock."

"What do you mean?"

"The Dwemer carved the entire city out of stone ages ago," the innkeeper explained. "Everything in this city is carved from stone." He pointed to what Marcus had mistaken as a low wall. "Even the beds."

_You've got to be fucking kidding me._

"Pleasant dreams," Kleppr smirked as he left the room.

Marcus had slept in some rather unpleasant places before, but a stone bed was a new one. Well, before he retired for the night, he was going to get a decent meal – he hoped it also wasn't carved from stone.

Back out in the common room, Marcus saw the woman from the marketplace he'd seen earlier in the day: Margret, the one who had almost become a victim of murder most foul. He crossed the room and sat down nearby, ordering a meal from Frabbi as he did so.

"Evening," he greeted the woman. She started, apparently lost in thought, then smiled when she saw it was her savior.

"Well, hello! Thank you again for saving my life earlier!" she gushed. "I can't tell you how grateful I am!"

"Glad I was able to help," Marcus said. He lowered his voice. "You were going to tell me why someone would try to kill you?"

She nodded. "Yes, but not here. Come to my room in an hour," she insisted. "I'm at the end of the hall down there."

_And doesn't _that _just sound like an invitation for mutual entertainment?_ Marcus thought with some amusement. Still, that wasn't remotely on his mind at the moment. Well, perhaps _very_ remotely. But he was more interested in finding out why she'd been targeted in the first place.

_You really can't resist a mystery, can you?_

Grinning to himself he muttered, "Nope. I'm hopeless."

An hour later he knocked discreetly on Margret's door. When she opened it, he was ever-so-faintly disappointed to see that she was still in her street clothes. Thankfully, he had decided not to make presumptions about her intentions, and was still in his armor.

She invited him in and closed the door behind him, gesturing for him to take the chair while she sat on the stone bed.

"So," Marcus began, "what's this all about? What's going on here in Markarth?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Margret said. "You're an Imperial, so I'm going to trust you. I don't think you'd turn me over to the Silver-Bloods."

"The Silver-Bloods?" Marcus asked. "Who exactly are they, and what have they got to do with someone trying to kill you. That guy said something about the Forsworn."

"I know he did," Margret admitted, "but I'm sure he was sent by Thonar Silver-Blood."

"And he is…?" Marcus prompted.

Margret gave a sigh. "The Silver-Bloods are, with the exception of Jarl Igmund, the most powerful family here in Markarth. They practically own everything; this inn, most of the mines around the Reach, and Cidhna Mine right here in Markarth."

"There's a mine here in the city?" Marcus was surprised.

"Yes," Margret said. "It's used as a maximum security prison. The prisoners mine silver ore until they are released from their sentence, or they die, if they're in there for life. They say no one escapes Cidhna Mine."

"Okay," Marcus said. "Why would Thonar Silver-Blood send a goon after you to kill you?"

"Goon?" Margret gave a little laugh. "I like the sound of that. It's descriptive!" She sobered. "Anyway, to answer your question I have to confess that I'm not just a traveler here. I'm an agent sent by the Empire, by General Tullius himself, to try and procure the deed to Cidhna Mine."

"Why?"

Margret gave him a withering look. "The war effort, silly. Cidhna Mine is one of the richest silver mines in all of the Reach, maybe even Tamriel itself. Jarl Igmund is loyal to the Empire, but we aren't sure about Thonar; his brother Thongvor has been an outspoken supporter of Ulfric Stormcloak."

"And the last thing the Empire wants is for all that money coming out of the mine to go to the Stormcloaks," Marcus mused.

Margret nodded. "Yes! Now you're getting it. I've been poking around, asking questions, and even tried making an offer to buy the mine from Thonar, but he wouldn't sell. I thought maybe I'd try to acquire the deed to the mine in a less…direct way."

"You tried to steal it," Marcus said bluntly, and Margret had the grace to look shamefaced.

"Thonar caught me snooping around the Treasury House and had me thrown out. The next thing I knew, that man in the marketplace tried to kill me. I'm sure he was sent by Thonar."

"You can't make an accusation like that without proof," Marcus said. "Do you know who he was, by the way?"

"No idea," Margret said. "From the way he was dressed, he was probably one of the smelter workers. Most of them are natives of the Reach. They all live down in the Warrens."

"The Warrens?" Marcus asked. "What's that?"

"It's a city under the city," Margret explained. "All of the poor of Markarth end up there, and they're nearly all Reachfolk."

Marcus nodded, then shot her a keen look. "They'll try again, you know," he told her. "One attempt failed, but if you really are on to something, they won't stop until they take you out."

Margret gave an unhappy nod. "I know," she said. "My cover here is well and truly blown. I'll have to go back to General Tullius and report my failure. He'll have to send someone else to make another attempt. We _can't_ let Ulfric Stormcloak get his hands on Cidhna Mine. If he does, this war could drag on for _years."_

_And while it does, the Thalmor rebuild their strength to crush the Empire for good._

When had he become a supporter of the Empire? He was the Dragonborn, wasn't he? He should be keeping out of politics.

"_I thought the Greybeards didn't involve themselves in politics," _he'd said to Master Arngeir.

"_We do not," _Arngeir had replied_. "But politics has a habit of wanting to involve itself with us, and if we do not stay informed, we could easily be led astray from the path of true enlightenment."_

Well, he didn't know about a path of true enlightenment, but he would be damned if he would let a racist bigot like Ulfric Stormcloak tear apart his newly adopted country in a mad bid for power.

He smiled now at Margret. "Tell me what I can do to help."

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Next up, Marcus does some investigating of his own, and finds out just how deep the corruption goes in Markarth….as deep as Cidhna Mine. I had to include the "Taste of Death" quest here, resolved as Marcus would do, because the quest in the game revolted me. Even the Dark Brotherhood questline didn't give me the willies as much as that one did.]<em>


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

However brilliant the Dwemer may have been with their innovative machinery, clearly they were lacking in imagination when it came to something as simple as a bed. Marcus tossed and turned for at least an hour trying to get comfortable before giving it up. He couldn't even imagine what it might have been like trying to make love on something so cold and unyielding.

_No wonder they died out,_ he thought sourly.

_They didn't 'die out', they vanished._

"Where have you been?" he muttered.

_I've been busy,_ his inner dragon said smugly. _You aren't the only one I've been keeping an eye on._

He wanted to ask more, but felt the dragon withdraw and knew he was alone again. He lay there for a long while in the dark turning things over in his mind. Thonar clearly suspected Margret of being more than just an 'interested buyer' in a mine he had no intention of selling. His own brother was a Stormcloak supporter, which probably meant that Margret's assumption about the destination of the wealth coming out of Cidhna Mine couldn't be too far off.

Weylin, by his own admission – before the guards had cut him down – was a member of the Forsworn. What Marcus couldn't figure out was the connection between Thonar and the Forsworn. The Nords hated the Reachmen, and had done everything in their power to stomp them out of existence during the Markarth Incident. Why would Thonar hire a Forsworn to murder Margret?

_To deflect attention from himself, obviously,_ he answered himself. But how could he have contacted them? And why would any self-respecting Reachman work for the same people who attempted to wipe out their entire race twenty-five years previous? It just didn't make sense.

_There are always those who try to curry favor with the victors,_ Marcus thought wryly. Perhaps, but that still didn't explain what Thonar hoped to gain from Margret's murder. He might get her out of the way, but surely, if he suspected her Imperial involvement, he had to know the Empire would send someone else. Was he so supremely arrogant that he thought he could get away with murder? Wouldn't the Jarl, Igmund, sit up and take notice that Imperial agents were being murdered in his own city?

Not as long as Igmund believed there was Forsworn unrest in his city. It was the perfect cover for Thonar's operations. And neither he nor Margret could take a story like that to Igmund without solid proof; proof that Margret may have tried to acquire, but was caught before she obtained it.

Marcus sighed in the dark. He would have to pay Thonar a visit tomorrow.

Margret didn't come into the common room for breakfast the next morning and Marcus tapped on her door, concerned.

"I'm fine," she told him when she opened it. "I'm just going to stay out of sight for a while before I make my way back to Solitude."

"Alright," he said. "I'll see what I can find out for you today."

"Just be careful," she warned him. "I'm pretty sure some of the guards are on Thonar's payroll, but I couldn't tell you which ones."

"I'll be fine," Marcus assured her. "I can take care of myself."

After breakfast he returned to his room to gather up his gear. Repacking his belt pouch with another potion, he found the note from the young man in the marketplace that he had stuffed in there and forgotten.

"_Meet me at the Shrine of Talos."_

He sure hoped the poor guy hadn't been waiting there all night. Alright, so he'd meet with this mysterious young man before going to see Thonar.

He came out of the Silver-Blood Inn and spotted Kerah, the jeweler who again cheerfully pointed the way, after thanking him for making her delivery.

But before he could head in that direction, one of the guards stopped him.

"You've been warned," he said harshly. "Stop poking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the Markarth guards murdering a man in cold blood, would it?" Marcus retaliated, refusing to be intimidated.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," the guard said threateningly. "Last warning: stay out of it." He turned on his heel and left.

_I must be doing something right, if they felt the need to warn me off,_ Marcus thought smugly.

The Shrine of Talos was situated in the center of Markarth, in a large stone structure that also housed a Temple to Dibella further up. Inside, the Shrine was cool and quiet, with a large statue to the hero-god of the Nords its prominent feature in the middle of the chamber.

Standing in front of the Shrine itself was the young man from the marketplace.

"Thank the Eight, you're here!" he exclaimed when Marcus came into view.

"Who are you?" Marcus asked. "What's this all about?"

"My name is Eltrys," the young man replied. "I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems, but after that attack in the market, I'm running out of time."

Marcus frowned. "What do you mean, 'running out of time'? Are you in some kind of trouble? Who was that man that attacked Margret in the marketplace?"

"You want answers?" Eltrys said, raising his voice. "Well so do I! So does everyone in this city! A man goes crazy in the market; everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess."

"Calm down," Marcus said, "you're getting yourself all worked up. If you want my help, you're going to need to tell me what's going on."

Eltrys drew a ragged breath and ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair. "This has been going on for years," he said. "And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring to me."

"You've looked into these murders?" Marcus asked.

"Yes," said Eltrys. "It all started when I was a boy. My father owned one of the mines. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord in these parts. He was killed. The guards said it was just a madman, but everyone knew the murderer was a member of the Forsworn." He paced up and down the small Shrine.

"That doesn't make sense," Marcus said. "If your father was a Reachman, why would the Forsworn attack and kill him?"

"That's exactly what I said!" Eltrys exclaimed. "But the Jarl just dismissed it. The 'evidence' was obvious it was the Forsworn, he said. He made every effort to brush it off. I've been trying to find out why ever since, but I've gotten nowhere. And then I got married." A faint smile crossed his lips. "I've got a child of my own on the way. I swore I was going to just give up, for my child's sake, but it's like my father's ghost is haunting me, asking me, 'Why?'"

"Would your father want you to put your child's future at risk?" Marcus frowned. "If anything happens to you, what happens to your wife and child?"

"I can't just quit, don't you see?" Eltrys said in frustration. "My father's spirit is crying out for vengeance."

"Alright, alright, take it easy," Marcus said, blowing out a breath of exasperation of his own. "What can you tell me about this Weylin guy? I assume he was the one who tried to kill Margret?"

Eltrys nodded. "He was one of the smelter workers. I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. I never knew much about Weylin, except he lives in the Warrens, like all the other workers."

Unwilling to compromise Margret's identity any further, Marcus refrained from revealing what he knew to Eltrys. For all he knew, this young man was an accomplice to the now-deceased Weylin, and was attempting to succeed where his partner had failed.

_You are such a cynical bastard, Marcus,_ he told himself.

"Alright," he said now, "I'll go see what I can find out down in the Warrens. If I learn anything, I'll let you know."

"Thank you!" Eltrys breathed. "I'll wait here for you."

Marcus left the Shrine and promptly got lost trying to find his way to the Warrens. Markarth was a maze of a city with all of its twisting stairs, stone buildings that all looked alike, and winding streets. He finally figured out how to get to the Warrens by going through the excavation area in front of Cidhna Mine, through which the rushing brook cut its wide channel. High above on the western side of the pit he could see a colossal water wheel which powered an outdoor forge, and rising behind that, Understone Keep. The Warrens were an underground series of catacombs carved out of the cliff face on the eastern side of the city, and Marcus made his way there. A man blocked his way in.

"Who are you?" the man demanded. "You don't live here."

"I'm conducting an investigation into Weylin's death," he said, only stretching the truth a little bit. "I'd like to see his quarters, please."

"I don't think so," the man said sourly. "We don't like strangers poking their noses around down here."

Marcus gritted his teeth. "I. Wasn't. Asking," he said succinctly, leaning closer and putting his hand on his dagger.

"Now, now," the man said, cowed, "don't get all upset. Here…take the key!" He handed it over with trembling hands, and Marcus took it, giving a sardonic bow.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said pleasantly.

Weylin's room was a ruin of tumbled boulders and broken furniture. A fire pit in the center of the room was cold now, with nothing but ash remaining where once a fire lent warmth. Marcus methodically searched the room for anything that could tell him more about Weylin or his connection to Thonar Silver-Blood, but the only thing he found was a note in a chest signed by a mysterious "N" person, informing Weylin he'd been chosen to "strike fear in the hearts of the Nords." That didn't give him much to go on. Who was "N"? Not Thonar, certainly.

Feeling there was nothing more to be learned here, Marcus left Weylin's room and exited the Warrens, intent on paying a visit to the Treasury House, where Margret had told him Thonar spent his days. He nearly plowed headlong into a burly Breton, menacingly blocking his way.

"You've been digging around where you don't belong," the man said, cracking his knuckles. "It's time you learned a lesson."

"Oh, and I suppose you think you'll be the one to teach me?" Marcus challenged. He was prepared to go for his sword, but the man merely put up his dukes, and Marcus smiled grimly.

_It's been a while since I've beaten the crap out of anybody._

It was short, ugly and painful. Months of being on the road, delving into barrows and climbing up to dragon lairs had honed Marcus' muscles to top condition. While the Breton was good, he couldn't hope to overcome a Dragonborn in full frustrated rage mode who knew tae kwon do. When Marcus had the man down on his knees he demanded, "Do you yield?"

"I yield! I yield!" the Breton wheezed. "No more!"

"Who sent you?" Marcus insisted.

"Nepos," the man said, wiping his bloody nose, "Nepos the Nose. The old man hands out the orders. He told me to make sure you didn't get in the way. That's all I know, I swear!"

_Nepos the Nose,_ Marcus mused. _The mysterious "N"._

"Where does Nepos get his orders from, then?" Marcus asked.

"I told you, I don't know!" the Breton insisted. "I just do what I'm told."

So, Nepos thought Marcus was "getting in the way" of something. Was he connected to Thonar in any way? Time to find out. He left the Breton nursing his wounds and made his way out of the excavation site and began looking for the Treasury House. When he found it, he went inside and approached the front desk. A young woman who looked to be in the second trimester of pregnancy looked up as he entered.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "The Treasury House is really just for patrons of the Silver-Blood family. You don't belong here."

"I'm here to see Thonar Silver-Blood," Marcus stated.

The girl shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, genuinely regretful. "He's asked not to be disturbed. He has important business."

"He'll see me," Marcus smiled persuasively. "He's expecting me." Well, if he _wasn't_ expecting someone to come around and question him, he was a fool.

"Oh!" the girl smiled. "Alright then, go on in. Just that way, around the corner." She pointed to her right.

Marcus followed the counter around to a corridor that sloped up to a door. A cleaning woman was sweeping nearby and greeted him warmly.

"You just let old Nana know if you need anything, dear."

Seated at a small table tucked into a corner, a richly-dressed woman looked him appreciatively up and down before remarking, "You're new in Markarth, aren't you?"

When he nodded, she replied snidely, "I'm married to Thonar Silver-Blood. Keep that in mind while you're speaking to me."

Taken aback, Marcus could think of nothing in reply. He nodded curtly and continued up the ramp.

Thonar Silver-Blood was a balding Nord of middle-age, dressed in fine clothes and seated at a table in what appeared to be his private study. Stacks of coins were piled neatly on the table, and he was busy counting them, entering them in a ledger book in front of him.

Barely glancing up from his work, he said in a bored, irritated voice, "I told you I wasn't to be disturbed Rhiada. What is it now?"

"I'm not Rhiada," Marcus rumbled. "I've got some questions I'd like some answers to."

"How did you get in here?" Thonar demanded sharply. "I'll have that girl's head for this! I'm a busy man. Half this city works for my family and I have to keep them in line. And that means I don't have time to answer inane questions from every Sven, Tor and Ragnar who walks into my private study. Now get out!"

"Not until you answer a few questions," Marcus said dangerously. Thonar looked as though he would argue further, but at that point a commotion out in the common room caught both their attentions: the sounds of fighting.

Marcus charged back down the ramp in time to see the sweet little old cleaning lady draw her knife across the throat of Thonar's wife. The receptionist girl was valiantly trying to fight off a man twice her size, and Marcus leaped in and cut the man down. The girl sank to the floor, groaning, bleeding from a wound to her arm, and he hurriedly pulled out the healing potion from his belt pouch and pressed it into her hands.

Thonar drew his own sword and cut down the cleaning lady while defended himself against a third assailant, and Marcus was tempted to sit back and watch. But he needed answers only Thonar could give, so he reluctantly stepped in and lent his sword to the fight, easily finishing the attacker off.

"By the gods…" Thonar muttered, looking around. He saw his wife's body lying in a pool of her own blood. "Betrid? You Forsworn bastards!" he raged. "We had a deal! You're traitors, all of you!" He sank into the chair. "Why? Why?"

Marcus wiped his sword on Nana's dress. "What deal did you make with the Forsworn, Thonar?"

"My wife…." He murmured. "They killed her."

"Divine justice?" Marcus suggested.

"Shut up!" Thonar snarled. "Only the gods can judge me."

"Like I said," Marcus couldn't help commenting. "So, about those answers?"

Thonar glared at him. "You want to know what the Forsworn really are?" he challenged. "They're my puppets. I have their 'king' rotting in Cidhna Mine."

"Madanach?" Marcus asked, not really surprised. He already knew the Reach King was there.

"The King in Rags himself," Thonar sneered. "He was supposed to keep them under control." He shook his head in disgust. "While we were off fighting the Elves in the Great War, Madanach was busy ruling over the Reach, until Ulfric came and put them down."

"From what I've read, they were doing a fairly decent job of running the Reach peacefully until the Nords came in and began practicing genocide," Marcus said.

"You know nothing about it!" Thonar said scathingly. "They were all lawless beasts, constantly raiding our villages, farms and settlements. When their uprising was crushed, I had Madanach brought to me. He was a wild animal, but a useful one. I offered him a stay of execution if he used his influence to deal with any annoyances that came up. Competitors, agents—" here he threw a glare at Marcus "—idiots. So I've let him run his little Forsworn rebellion from inside Cidhna Mine. Now he's out of control."

"The Reachfolk lived in this land long before the Nords came here," Marcus pointed out. "How can you blame them for wanting to drive you out? If someone came into my house and said, 'Hey, I like what you've done with the place, I think I'll stay, pack your things and get out,' I think I'd be pissed off, too."

"We won the land from them ages ago by right of conquest," Thonar said hotly. "It's ours now. They can crawl back into their caves and burrows and die, for all I care. If they come into my city, I throw them into Cidhna Mine. You've got the information you wanted, you damn hound. This is your fault."

"I fail to see how your greed and corruption are my fault," Marcus said angrily. "You brought this upon yourself Thonar."

"You got in my way," Thonar said menacingly. "I always eliminate those who get in my way. That Imperial agent, Margret, thinks she can hide from me, but I own the damn Inn she's hiding in! That mewling milk-drinker, Eltrys, thinks he can expose me? He'll learn just how wrong he is!"

"Wait! Eltrys?" the girl, Rhiada said from behind the counter. She dragged herself to her feet. "My husband, Thonar? You wouldn't hurt my husband!"

"Too late, my dear," Thonar laughed cruelly. "You should have told him to keep his nose out of my affairs."

"Nooo!" Rhiada moaned, and stumbled around the counter to get to the door. Marcus stopped her. "Go home, Rhiada," he said. "I'll try to stop them."

"So says the big hero!" Thonar sneered. "Go ahead! Try to stop it. I'll see both you _and _Madanach rot in Cidhna Mine. Now get out of my house!"

Then Marcus did something he hadn't done since he'd come to Skyrim. He raised his middle finger to Thonar. "Fuck you, you sick bastard," he said succinctly.

Racing along the raised stone streets, Marcus took the stairs up to the Shrine of Talos two at a time.

_Please don't let it be too late!_ he prayed, but all hope was dashed as he entered the Shrine and his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Sprawled across the feet of Talos was Eltrys, run through by several swords. Three of Markarth's city guards stood over the body, waiting for him.

"We warned you," one of them said, smugly. "But you just had to go and cause trouble. Now we have to pin all these recent murders on you. Silence witnesses. Work, work, work."

"Why?" Marcus demanded, heart-broken. How could he tell Rhiada? "Why kill Eltrys? He didn't really know anything."

"We had a nice little deal going between Thonar and Madanach until you and this snot-nosed kid started snooping around," the guard shrugged. "Well, you wanted to find the man responsible for those killings? You'll have plenty of time with the King in Rags when you're in Cidhna Mine."

It was on the tip of his tongue to pull rank on them and inform them who they were about to throw into jail, and if they did they could bloody well fight Alduin on their own, but he didn't. From what he'd seen so far, it wouldn't make a difference, and the last thing he wanted to do was to tip off Thonar Silver-Blood about exactly who he'd thrown into his maximum-security prison. So he said nothing. The guards seemed to sense his frustration and acceptance, because they flanked him.

"Now you're coming with us," the first one said. "It's a life-sentence for you in Cidhna Mine. You'll never see the sun again, you hear me? No one escapes Cidhna Mine."

* * *

><p>There had been many times in his life when he had despaired, Marcus thought, but few were the times when he felt the soul-crushing hopelessness that assailed him now. The worst was that his children would never know what had happened to their Papa. He knew Lydia would look after them, and he'd left quite a bit of his wealth behind for her to manage while he was gone; it was a standing arrangement he had with her. She invested some of his money in the local businesses and the profits went back into his nest egg. His children would be provided for.<p>

But he wouldn't be there.

Somehow or other, he _had_ to get out of here. But how? He didn't believe for a moment that this jail was inescapable. Even Alcatraz had had a few prison breaks in its time. There had to be a way, and if that meant digging his way out of here with Ysgramor's Soup Spoon, he was prepared to do just that.

Except everything he owned had been taken from him. The only thing he could claim right now was a roughspun tunic, footwraps, trousers, and a pickaxe the female Orc guard had shoved into his hands when she told him to mine ore until he "started throwing up silver bars", a particularly unpleasant imagery, to be sure.

Working his way down to the main cavern, he saw several men sitting around, resting. One, a huge, burly Orc with a broken tusk, was leaning against a wall near an iron gate. A tunnel led away from the gate, but no one went through it.

He moved closer to the fire to get warmer. Despite being underground, it was chilly, and he only had the tunic for protection from the elements.

"Hello, friend," one of the inmates greeted him. "What are you in for?"

"I got framed for murder," Marcus said.

"Oh?" the man said, eyebrows rising. "Well, I would have said that's what they all say, but I think I heard about you. You're that Imperial Thonar set up for a fall, aren't you?"

Marcus nodded miserably.

"Name's Urracen, by the way," the Reachman said kindly. "What's yours?"

"Marcus," he told him. "How'd you end up in here?"

Urracen sighed resignedly. "A Nord nobleman I served was stabbed in the night. Wasn't me, but I knew I'd get blamed for it. So I ran. Joined the Forsworn, started killing, got caught. Now I'm here."

"So you're innocent of murder, too?"

"I'm innocent of the first one," Uraacen shrugged. "All the rest are on me."

"And the others?" Marcus asked. "Are they all innocent too?"

"Some are," Urracen admitted. "But some are cold-blooded killers. Like Borkul the Beast over there. I heard he once ripped a man's arm off and beat him to death with it. He's old-fashioned that way."

Marcus studied the Orc. Huge, muscled and built for power. He didn't really want to tangle with that if he could avoid it.

"What's through that gate over there?"

Urracen chuckled. "That's where the King in Rags lives," he told Marcus. "Nobody talks to him without going through Borkul the Beast first."

"Then he's the guy I need to talk to," Marcus said, getting up.

"What?" Urracen blinked. "Are you out of your mind? Didn't you just hear what I said?"

Marcus heard, but he knew his only hope of getting out of here lay with a man who was already defying the one who'd thrown him in here. If Madanach was testing Thonar's hold over him in Cidhna Mine, then he probably already had some kind of escape plan in mind. Marcus wanted to be a part of that plan.

"That's far enough," the Orc rumbled.

"I need to speak to Madanach."

"When skeevers fly," Borkul grunted. "Go back and dig, you little pipsqueak."

Marcus held on to his temper. This was not the time to unleash the dragon. Not when charm might get him so much further. "He's expecting me," he said now, throwing everything he had into it.

Borkul was unmoved.

"I'll believe it when he tells me," the Orc said scathingly. "Not when it comes from a milk-drinker like you."

"Don't make me angry," Marcus said, restraining himself. "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Borkul laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. "Whaddya gonna do?" he taunted. "Breathe on me?"

The punch landed solid and hard, and Marcus felt the knuckles in his right hand protest violently. The brow ridge of an orc came down much lower on the forehead, reinforcing the septum of the nose. A punch thrown with the force that Marcus had put behind his would have broken the nose of a human. It only made the Orc mad.

"Why you little—" Borkul growled, and Marcus had to dance out of the way to avoid the swipe the Orc took at him.

"No shivs! No shivs!" Urracen cried, and several others took up the call. Borkul growled, but tucked the small blade back into his waistband. Apparently, this was to be some sort of trial; if he could best Borkul the Beast without a weapon, he would be "in" with the other prisoners. And while Borkul didn't look happy about missing an opportunity to play butcher, he nevertheless felt confident about crushing the smaller man without it.

Marcus knew his only hope was to stay out of the Orc's reach and use his size and weight against him. Borkul had never fought anyone who knew tae kwon do, and after tasting dust for the umpteenth time, something snapped in him. In rage, he charged straight at Marcus who leaped up over the Orc and tumbled over him, landing lightly on his feet. Borkul plowed into a support post which shook alarmingly. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Turning, red-eyed, he grabbed a handful of loose dirt and threw it into Marcus' eyes, blinding him.

"Cheat!" cried one of the other prisoners, but Borkul now had Marcus pinned against the wall and was drawing back to deliver a solid punch to the face.

"FEIM!" Marcus Shouted as the massive mattock of flesh loomed, and suddenly he was free, slipping easily away from Borkul as the Orc drove his fist with a sickening crack into the stone wall where Marcus had been pinned an instant before. He howled in pain as several bones fractured with the force of the blow.

"By the Old Ones!" Urracen exclaimed. "What manner of power is _that?"_

"It's the power of the Thu'um!" one of the other prisoners, a Nord, murmured. "Can it really be…?"

"My hand…" Borkul moaned.

"Do you yield?" Marcus demanded, feeling himself start to solidify.

Borkul looked up at him, eyes narrowed in thought. Big he might have been, but he wasn't stupid. If this Imperial could slip out of his grasp so quickly the way he had, could flip him around like a toy and hit him in places that seized up muscles and nerves the way he had, then Borkul wanted nothing more to do with him. He knew when he'd been beaten.

"I yield," he muttered. "Go see Madanach, then, if you're so intent on it."

Marcus straightened and bowed. "You're a worthy opponent, Borkul," he said, with complete sincerity.

He headed down the tunnel as one of the other prisoners began casting a healing spell on Borkul's fist.

The short tunnel twisted left, then right, and Marcus noticed a spur tunnel leading off behind an iron gate. It was locked, so he made his way to the end of the passage that opened into a small chamber. Seated at a desk to one side was an elderly Reachman who was busily writing a letter.

Without even looking up, the King in Rags – for it could only be Madanach himself – said, "You've beaten my Orc. That takes some doing. There aren't many who can boast they've gotten the better of Borkul. So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?"

"I'd like to think I know quite a bit about the Reachfolk by now," Marcus said.

"'Reachfolk', is it? Not 'Forsworn'?" Madanach laid down his quill and turned to look at Marcus for the first time.

"Hmm…younger than I expected," he mused. "Thonar made it sound like you were much older."

"I'm older than I look," Marcus said stiffly. "And you're prevaricating."

"You haven't asked a question yet," Madanach said blandly, and Marcus nodded his head in recognition of the point taken.

"Maybe that's because I really don't have many," Marcus said. "I've figured out that Thonar is trying to keep his corrupt little scheme away from the prying eyes of the Jarl, but I haven't figured out yet how much Igmund knows."

"Igmund won't do anything to the Silver-Bloods because they own every damn thing in this city," Madanach sneered. "Any move he would make to stop them would cause economic disaster of epic proportions all across Skyrim. What else do you think you know?"

"I know Thonar pardoned you years ago when you were captured, after the Nords took back the Reach and threw you in here," Marcus went on. "He hoped to use you to eliminate his competition, and anyone – like me – who asked too many questions."

"But you managed to neutralize the thug I sent after you," Madanach said, eyes narrowing. "And you managed to beat my Beast out there. Oh yes, I heard everything that went on. Sound carries in these tunnels, you know. And I have eyes and ears where I need them."

"Thonar thought he had you on a leash," Marcus said now, "but you were just biding your time, making him fall into a false sense of security, waiting for your moment to strike back."

"So you've got something between the ears besides troll fat," Madanach murmured. "That's good. You see, I happen to know a bit about you, too, Marcus Dragonborn. Oh, don't look so surprised. I told you I had eyes and ears where I needed them. You accelerated my plans, young man," Madanach said severely, but not threateningly. "I had already set some of my escape plans into motion, and was going to break out soon anyway. You just forced me to move my plans up."

"Why?"

"My people need me," Madanach said. "While I've been in here, they've been suffering out there, leaderless, without a goal. It's time to take back the Reach!"

"And then what?" Marcus asked.

"Then we'll have our country back," Madanach said fiercely. "Oh, I know it won't happen overnight. It might not even happen in what's left of my lifetime, but it _will_ happen."

He turned a keen eye towards Marcus. "And where do _you_ stand on the issue, young Dragonborn?"

"I'm not sure," Marcus said honestly. "If you had your country back, would you align yourself with the Empire, or the Thalmor?" He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to be sure.

"Why would I align with either side?" Madanach said shrewdly, surprising him. "We have no love for the Thalmor. They betrayed us. They promised to recognize our petition for an independent Reach if we took our land back while the Empire was still in the throes of the Great War. So we did, and we ruled here in relative peace for two years, before the Empire rallied. The Thalmor then told the Empire that we were traitors, opportunists who took advantage of the Empire in a weakened state to foment unrest. The Empire came back in force and brought in Ulfric Stormcloak to slaughter my people and put their own Jarl back on a throne that was never his to begin with!"

"Why did the Thalmor do that, when they supported you before?" Marcus asked.

"Because we have Breton and Altmer heritage, young man," Madanach said. "We are very good at casting magic, and very good at resisting it when it's being thrown at us. The Thalmor know this, and would rather face a disorganized rabble of non-magic wielding Nords than trained witchblades like us."

_Now it makes sense!_ The Reachfolk were also masters of guerilla warfare, adept at hiding in plain sight and popping up out of nowhere, if the tales Urika and Maiara told him were true, and he had no reason to doubt it. The Thalmor certainly would want to eliminate that kind of potential threat.

"So, you're going to break out then," Marcus said now.

"Soon," Madanach admitted. "My problem now is what to do with you."

"I'm not your problem," Marcus said evenly. "Thonar Silver-Blood is."

Madanach actually laughed at that. "Thonar won't be a problem much longer," he promised. "No, you see, you are an unknown quantity. I don't know if I can trust you or not. It might be better if I just kill you now."

"I think you'd find that a lot more difficult than you imagine," Marcus said, tensing. "Besides, if you kill me, the whole world goes kablooie."

"What? What kind of word is that?"

"It means that Alduin, the World-Eater, will win. No Dragonborn: no one to stop him. Game over."

"I'm not a Nord," Madanach scoffed. "I don't believe in Nord superstitions."

Marcus smiled grimly. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a Nord, either."

There was silence for a moment or two while the King in Rags considered this. "And you're buying into this fairy tale?" he asked skeptically.

"If I hadn't seen Alduin with my own eyes, then no, I wouldn't have." He put every bit of persuasion into his voice he could muster. "If Alduin devours the world and everything in it, I don't think he cares much if you're Nord or not. There will be no Sovngarde, no Aetherius, no Void…nothing. Everything ceases to exist."

Madanach glared at Marcus, who met the older man's gaze steadily.

"Alright," the Reachman said finally. "Let's say for a moment I believe you. Why should I let you take advantage of the plans I've been working on for months? I could just let you find your own way out of here. Of course," he grinned wickedly, "that wouldn't clear your name. The blood of Eltrys and a score of others Thonar has blamed you for would still be on your hands."

Marcus frowned. "And if the Dragonborn has a tainted reputation, your chances of getting your land back are no better than they were before." Did he just promise to help them get the Reach back?

"Well now," Madanach murmured slowly. "This is an interesting proposition. You're suggesting you'd throw your lot in with mine for an independent Reach? That's not going to make you very popular with the locals, you know."

"I'm not here to win a popularity contest," Marcus said. "I'm here to slay the Destroyer of Worlds. But if, along the way, I can correct a few social injustices, I'm okay with that."

Madanach chuckled low and long. "I like you, Dragonborn. I don't trust you, but I like you. Alright, here's what I'm prepared to do. You do something for me as a show of good faith, and I'll make sure your name is cleared when we break out. Everyone in the Reach will know who to blame for the murders that have been committed."

"What do I have to do?" Marcus asked warily.

"There's a sniveling little snitch in our midst who carries tales to Thonar," the King in Rags said. "His name is Grisvar the Unlucky. Quite a fitting name, really, as his luck is about to run out. He was useful for a while, when I wanted to send misinformation Thonar's way, but now he's outlived his usefulness. Take care of him for me."

"You want me to kill him?" Marcus gaped.

"You want me to exonerate you?" Madanach asked grimly. "Use this." He held out a shiv.

Marcus closed his mouth and simmered. Damn the man! He was over a barrel, and Madanach knew it. He couldn't remain here, but if he escaped on his own, he would be a fugitive the rest of his life. Madanach was prepared to take the blame, but only if he committed murder in cold blood. If he refused, he'd be stuck here the rest of his life and the world would end.

"I'll do it," he muttered. "Damn you." He took the shiv.

"Too late," Madanach grinned.

Marcus stormed out of the tunnel and tersely demanded of Urracen where he might find Grisvar. Pointed in the right direction, Marcus blindly marched down the tunnel and found Grisvar picking away unenthusiastically at a vein of silver ore.

"Madanach sends his regards, Grisvar," he told the man, who leaped to his feet.

"No! Please don't kill me! I can be useful!"

Marcus didn't say anything. He didn't trust himself to. He hated this. Grisvar took his silence for intimidation and sprang into action.

"I won't let you kill me without a fight!" he said, two shivs appearing in his hands.

"_ZUN!"_ Marcus Shouted, and one of the shivs flew into a crevice, where it immediately became irretrievable.

"What did you do?" shrieked Grisvar. He began flailing like a madman, and Marcus ducked and dodged the wild swipes, waiting for an opening. Grisvar's shiv caught him on the shoulder, and he winced, cursing Madanach under his breath for putting him in this position.

Grisvar kept ducking out of the way of Marcus' blows. The wiry little man had spent most of his life avoiding getting hit, and today was no exception. Marcus was getting worn out trying keep up with the man. But Grisvar was too scared to pay attention to what he was doing. He kept backing up, further and further into the mine, past the point where torches illuminated the tunnel and glinted off the silvery threads of ore buried in the rock.

Marcus stopped and called out, "Watch out behind you!"

But Grisvar refused to be taken in by such an old trick. "Oh, no, you don't!" he sneered. "I'm not falliiiiiiiiiiinnnnngggg—" The shriek as Grisvar felt his foot slip, felt his body overbalance, felt himself falling over the edge into one of the bottomless shafts would stay with Marcus for many nights. He stood there, in the semi-darkness, breathing hard and pounding his fist against a support post. Damn Madanach!

The King in Rags looked up as Marcus re-entered his private quarters.

"Grisvar's dead," the Dragonborn announced.

"Yes, so I hear," Madanach answered. "And I also hear you didn't kill him, the fall did. Anyway, it's done. If it's any consolation to you, Grisvar would have sold us all out to Thonar Silver-Blood in return for a little skooma. He's not worth the plague to your conscience. Get some rest. I have some things to do, and then we're getting out of here."

Marcus returned to the main chamber and sat down next to the fire, staring at it moodily. Urracen came and sat down next to him. "Don't be upset about Grisvar," Urracen told him. "He had it coming. If it hadn't been you, Madanach would have had one of us do it, and we wouldn't have hesitated."

"He's right," Borkul rumbled from the other side of the fire. "Little snitch was askin' for it. I'm still sure it was him that told the guards about the skooma stash."

Others murmured agreement.

"You all use skooma down here?" Marcus asked.

"Depends on what you mean by 'use'," Urracen said. "I won't deny some here are addicted, but we also use it as a form of currency. We were pooling our skooma to sneak it out and get some much-needed supplies in here. You know, food, clothing, potions and so forth. Madanach has his sources, you see. Grisvar must have tipped off the guards, because the next thing we knew, they came in and cleaned us out. Took us months to collect it, and it was gone like that. We couldn't prove it was Grisvar, of course, but it was rather telling that he had skooma for the next few weeks while the rest of us had none. Those who were really bad off had to suck up to him to get a fix."

"What, you mean, work his shifts and stuff?" Marcus asked.

"Or anything else," another man, Duach, said. "Grisvar wasn't particular when it came to men or women. He'd fuck either."

_Oh._

"So don't feel bad, Marcus," Duach said kindly. "You did us all a favor." The others murmured their agreement and wandered off to pretend they were working while they waited for Madanach to give the word.

Marcus stared into the fire a while longer, still not at ease over his part in Grisvar's death. The man might have been a complete weasel, but he'd never offered Marcus any harm. He stretched out on the ground – which was still more comfortable than his bed in the Silver-Blood Inn had been – and cushioned his head on his arm. It was still some time before he drifted off to sleep, and that was filled with dark thoughts of murder and screams that never ended.

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Next up, it's jailbreak time! Marcus' name is cleared and tentative promises are made for the future of the Reach. Then it's back to Whiterun to make plans for that long-delayed trip to Winterhold.]<em>


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

The night of the jailbreak was one long remembered in Markarth, and indeed, across the Reach, for many years to come. Depending where your sympathies lay, it was either a night of extreme horror, or one of jubilant celebration. Madanach had given instructions to his people that anyone who yielded was not to be harmed. He also sent word through his network to claim responsibility for the recent murders, including poor Eltrys, though he insisted that covert arrangements be made to provide for his widow.

Rhiada knew the truth, however, and she remained in her home that night and mourned, praying the Divines would deal justice to the man who was truly responsible for her husband's murder.

Marcus found himself escaping down the tunnel Madanach and his men had carved deep into the mine, which broke into the ruins under the city of Markarth. There they came face-to-face with the guardians the ancient Dwemer left behind to protect their city. With several Reachmen witchblades, including Madanach himself who was a formidable ally, they made short work of the automatons, but Marcus privately felt he would not have wanted to confront the mechanicals on his own, especially the one Duach called a Dwarven Centurion, a colossal figure made entirely of bronze that blew boiling hot steam at them. One of the prisoners was parboiled before they realized the thing was still active.

The frostbite spiders gave them little trouble, and when they finally neared the entrance of the ruins which led out into Markarth, Madanach called a halt. Ahead, a young woman in Forsworn gear approached and greeted him.

"Madanach! You've made it!" she grinned. "Here, I've brought all the things you requested." She pointed to several satchels lined up against the wall. Madanach motioned to his men to armor and equip themselves.

"And what of the other things?" he asked her, cocking an eyebrow.

"They were a little harder to get, but I had some help from our man inside," she said. She came over to Marcus and presented him with his Blades armor, weapons, and everything that had been taken from him.

"Thank you," he said gratefully, eager to get back to some semblance of "normal."

"The rest of you go on ahead and wait for me by the entrance," the King in Rags told them. "I need to talk with our friend, here."

He led Marcus a little way off before speaking.

"Now, then, young Dragonborn," he said. "This is the way it's going to be. I've had Kaie recover all the things that were stolen from you. You better get ready before we break out into the city. And take this; it's blessed with the old magicks. Something to remember me by. "

"What happens now?" Marcus asked.

"Now?" Madanach grinned. "I announce to all of Markarth that I have returned. Don't worry about your name. They'll know who to blame – and fear – after today."

"And your dream of an independent Reach?"

Madanach nodded. "It might take years, but I'll organize the Reachfolk again. We'll reclaim our land, and then, once that has been firmly established, we'll have peace. A kingdom once more."

Marcus gazed at the old man. He wondered how many years Madanach might have left to him. Living in the conditions of Cidhna Mine couldn't have been good for him. Despite the fact he was a murderer many times over, and a manipulator of the highest degree, Marcus felt more than a little sympathy for his cause.

"If I can help in any way, I'll do what I can," he promised. "I'm not a Jarl, or High King, or Emperor. If I could, I'd boot out the corruption here and give you the lands myself. But maybe I can make some diplomatic inroads for you. Lay some groundwork and get people to start talking."

"Hmm…" Madanach rumbled. "Well, it's more than we've had in the past," he mused. "I personally don't think these Nords understand anything but a sword between the ribs, but my people are tired of fighting. We just want peace and a place to call our own. If you can Igmund to agree to leave our Redoubts alone, I think we might be able to meet him halfway."

Marcus grinned. "That's all I ask."

"In any case, young Dragonborn," Madanach said now, "I will send word to the Redoubts that you are to be granted safe passage. As long as you don't violate my trust in you, you'll be able to move freely through the Reach." Here he winked. "But if you upgrade your armor, keep the 'safe passage' sign clearly visible until your identity has been confirmed!"

In the end, the Night of Terror (as the Nords called it), or the Night of Liberation (as the Reachfolk called it) was really over very quickly. There were in fact few casualties, and most of those, coincidentally enough, turned out to be Thonar and Thongvor Silver-Blood, who refused to yield, and a couple dozen of the city guard who turned out to have far more coins in their possession than a simple guard could have earned in a year.

Jarl Igmund was mortified to learn that Thonar had actually thrown the _Dragonborn _into Cidhna Mine and was prepared to leave him there to rot. He was embarrassed to realize the extent to which the Silver-Bloods had manipulated and corrupted their way so close to the Mournful Throne. He was more than willing to declare all their properties default to the throne, including Cidhna Mine.

As for the Dragonborn, Igmund practically tripped over himself in his attempts to make it up to Marcus. A lesser man would have exploited such a situation, but Marcus wasn't looking for anything for himself. Yes, he was outraged at the way he'd been treated, but the man responsible was dead. Now was the opportunity to open up dialog for future considerations.

"For myself I ask nothing, Jarl Igmund," Marcus told him. "But for the people of the Reach I ask much. I'm not a Nord. I wasn't born here in Skyrim." _Boy, is _that_ the truth! _"But I've talked with the people here and I've done extensive reading of your histories. And I can see the people are hurting. This Civil War hurts everyone, and when it's compounded by the struggles going on here in the Reach, the people you are sworn to protect are the ones who are hurt the most. It's time to start negotiating a permanent peace with the people of the Reach."

"The Forsworn?" Jarl Igmund scoffed. "Dragonborn, you must have had your brains addled in Cidhna Mine if you think the Forsworn would agree to any kind of peace."

"And that's exactly the kind of attitude that fosters and perpetuates the hatred," Marcus said. "As long as the Nords continue to view the Reachfolk as something less than human, they will continue to think that it's okay to treat them that way. You chafe at the restrictions the Thalmor have put on you through the White-Gold Concordat, yet you don't see the similarities when you consign the Reachfolk to work as glorified slave labor in the mine pits, or refuse to give them land they owned before the Nords came here, or raid their Redoubts because in your mind they're nothing more than animals."

"You would compare us to the damned Thalmor?" Igmund hissed, and Marcus knew it was everything the Jarl could do to keep his voice down, since the Thalmor kept a constant vigil for Talos-worshippers here in his own city. Day after day he had to watch them parade past his throne, smug in the certainty there was nothing he could do to remove them from his presence.

"Prove me wrong," Marcus stated flatly. "Start talking to them. Extend an olive branch, or whatever passes as a sign of peaceful intent here. Forbid the raiding of their Redoubts, and punish those that violate that edict."

"You're asking for more than I can give, Dragonborn," Igmund growled. "My own father was killed by the Forsworn, and our ancestral shield stolen by their filthy Hagravens!"

"Matriarchs," Marcus corrected firmly. "They're Matriarchs, and I've met a couple of them. I won't go so far as to say I feel entirely comfortable around them, but I've dealt fairly with them in the past, and they have dealt fairly with me." He threw all his persuasive voice at Jarl Igmund. "It has to start somewhere," he insisted. "If you want your people to have peace, you have to be prepared to give it, as well as receive it."

Igmund frowned. This wasn't the Dragonborn he had expected. The legends told of a Nord hero who would slay the dragons, destroy the World-Eater and save the world. This Imperial standing before him now seemed to be asking him to step down as Jarl and hand everything over to a band of murdering cut-throats.

"You say you've dealt with these Hagravens….these 'Matriarchs' before?" he asked thoughtfully.

Marcus nodded, on his guard. If his experiences in Skyrim so far were any indication, Igmund was preparing to ask a really big favor.

_Here's the wind-up…_

"I might believe you, if you could prove it," the Jarl said slowly.

…_and the pitch…._

"If you could retrieve my father's shield from Blind Cliff Cave, and return it to me, I promise I will keep a more open mind about the For—I mean, about the Reachfolk."

…_and it's low and inside!_

Repressing a resigned sigh, Marcus gave his most polite smile and promised he would bring the shield back.

Returning to the Silver-Blood Inn - which was undergoing some transitional throes at the management level- Marcus asked for pen and paper and was told there was none to be found. Rolling his eyes, he headed over to Arnleif & Sons to purchase some. He wanted to send a letter home to Lydia and the children letting them know he was fine, but would be delayed a few more days.

Inside the building, the first thing Marcus noticed was how barren the shelves were. Cobwebs were everywhere, and he began to wonder if they'd even have what he was looking for.

"What do you think it all means, Lisbet?" the man asked the woman behind the counter. "Are we going to be safe in our own homes?"

_Lisbet….why does that name sound familiar?_

"I hope so, Imedhnain," Lisbet said. "For now let's just get back to work." She caught sight of Marcus and motioned him forward. "You there, if you're looking to trade, just step up to the counter."

As he approached, Lisbet's eyes widened. "It's you!" she exclaimed. "The Dragonborn!"

At the exact same moment, Marcus remembered why her name sounded so familiar. It was in the journal he'd taken from the cannibal, Eola, in the Hall of the Dead. Lisbet was one of the members of the Coven of Namira. He felt more than slightly sick.

"Can you believe Madanach is on the loose again?" she asked conversationally. She leaned in closer so that Imedhnain couldn't overhear. "I hope the stories I'm hearing about your involvement in that aren't true!"

Her breath was foul, smelling of decay, almost choking him, and Marcus decided then and there his note could wait. "I hope the tales I've heard about you being a cannibal aren't either," he snapped quietly.

Lisbet's eyes widened in shock and dismay, but Marcus didn't stick around to find out what else she might say or do. He turned on his heel and left.

In the end, he borrowed pen, ink and paper from Rhaerek, Igmund's Steward and uncle, and sat down in a quiet corner to write his letter. He left quite a lot out, promising to fill Lydia in on the details later, sending his love to the children and promising to be home just as soon as he could.

He spent a couple of hours at the forge run by a female Orc named Ghorza gra-Bagrol, who complained about her "useless" apprentice when she wasn't working on something else. Marcus felt sorry for the kid. If his own mistress didn't encourage him, how would he ever gain confidence in himself? Still, it was not his place to say, and every boss runs their business their own way. He made repairs to the Blades armor, replacing loose plates and mending torn leather, and worked at sharpening the Blades sword, though he felt Ghorza watching him keenly as he did so.

"You're doing it wrong," she finally told him.

"What?"

"Your sword," she nodded toward it. "You treat it like a Nord sword, but it's clearly not. And what about that one?" Ghorza asked him, pointing to Dragonbane.

"It's enchanted," Marcus said. "I don't know how to sharpen it."

Ghorza sniffed. "Same as you would the other. It's still a blade."

"I've tried," he said. "It doesn't seem to hold an edge when I do it."

"Let me see." She held out her hand, and Marcus handed the ancient enchanted katana over to her.

"Hmm….Akaviri steel," she said, examining it closely. "Haven't seen this in a long time. What kind of enchantment is on it?"

Marcus shrugged. "I was told it has shock damage, and will do extra damage to dragons."

Ghorza nodded. "What are you using to temper it?"

"Nothing," Marcus said. "I told you, I can't improve it. But I was told it takes quicksilver."

Again Ghorza nodded and finally said, "I can temper it for you. One hundred septims. It should take about an hour."

Marcus blinked, then grinned. "Yeah, sure! That would be great!" He handed over the coins and turned to leave, but Ghorza stopped him.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded.

"What?"

"Your payment includes a tutorial. I'm only going to show you how to do this once. Watch and learn. When you're good enough, you'll know what to do." And she proceeded to show him exactly _how_ the sword should be sharpened.

Delphine had never showed him this, never told him how to care for the swords she'd given him. She promised Benor she would show him, but Marcus supposed that was because Benor usually used a battleaxe; a sword was something different for him.

Even Adrianne never stepped in to tell him if he was doing it wrong. He realized then that there was a world of difference between a blacksmith, like Adrianne, and a weaponsmith, like Ghorza.

"Akaviri steel requires constant care," Ghorza scolded him. "You've let even your non-magical sword get into terrible shape. You can't sharpen it the same way you would a Nord blade, or an Elven one, or even an Alik'r scimitar. Each style of blade requires a different style of maintenance."

"Can you train me?" Marcus asked eagerly.

Ghorza gave a short bark of laughter. "Have you got five years?" she grinned. "That's how long apprenticeships usually last, and I've already got Tacitus here. Though between you and me, you can't be any worse than him."

Marcus tactfully decided to say nothing.

"What can you teach me, then?" he asked. "I mean, I'll be around for a couple more days, at least."

"This is good for now," Ghorza said. "Practice this until you know it by heart, until you can do it in your sleep. Use steel on that one there, but quicksilver on this one. Keep them sharp, and you'll see the difference when you get into battle."

Marcus spent the next hour working on both katanas, taking them to Ghorza periodically for her to inspect. He still couldn't seem to improve Dragonbane any better than it was when Delphine had given it to him, but Ghorza was able to put a finer edge to it.

"Should last for a while," she shrugged. "If you bang it up, bring it back. For another hundred septims, I'll fix it for you."

Marcus thanked her and returned to the Silver-Blood Inn. He decided to get a good night's rest – or at least, what passed for it on a cold stone slab – and head out to Blind Cliff Cave in the morning.

* * *

><p>Blind Cliff Cave turned out to be a series of caves linking buried ruins with a crumbling tower set far back into the hills. Entering the first cave near the road, he attracted the attention of the lookouts and gave the sign of non-aggression. The Reachfolk within apparently never got the memo, however, because they attacked at once. Angry beyond words, Marcus backed out and wondered if Madanach had played him for a fool.<p>

_He promised me safe passage,_ he fumed silently.

_For the Redoubts,_ his inner dragon reminded him. _Not for every single camp, outpost and watchtower in the Reach._

"Now we're splitting hairs," he grumbled.

_How would you expect him to get word to everyone, without some form of mass communication?_

"Alright, alright!" Marcus muttered. "I get it, it's not his fault." He realized he had no choice. He didn't want to create any ill feelings among the Reachfolk, but if they were going to attack him, he would have to defend himself. "Any ideas on how to minimize the body count?" he asked sarcastically.

_There's no need to be snide. You don't have to go through. Go around._

"That's a sheer cliff face!" he protested.

_No, it's a crumbling cliff face. And it's not so bad further south._

That was true. From his vantage point by the road he could see the slope lessen as it met the tributary which spilled into the Karth River. It was rugged, but climbable. An hour later he'd pulled himself up past the worst of it and could see a long expanse of rolling green leading up to a broken tower.

_Blind Cliff Bastion. There's a walkway from the tower to the cliff face. Help Melka, and you'll get the shield._

"Who's Melka?" Marcus asked, but the dragon had withdrawn once more. There were more Forsworn waiting around the tower, and though once more, Marcus gave the sign of non-aggression, they attacked him first, leaving him little choice but to cut his way through their ranks. Finally, he stood at the door leading into the Bastion within the cliff.

Help Melka, his inner dragon had said. Was she a hostage here? Or perhaps she was a Reachwoman who needed to have something done, and would give him the shield in return? Squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck, Marcus opened the door.

"Who comes?" a voice hissed. "Who comes to aid poor Melka? Poor, poor Melka! Locked in a cage by e-e-evil Petra! _Hate her!"_

Marcus had heard that kind of voice before. "Melka?" he asked, approaching cautiously. In the dim light he saw a Hagraven, hunched over and miserable, locked in a cage that was almost too small for her to move around in.

"Yesss!" the unfortunate Hagraven hissed. "Kind, kind, meat! Let me out! Help me kill Petra! Stab her! Pluck out her eyeballs!"

"Why do you want to kill Petra?" Marcus asked, not sure if releasing Melka would be the right thing to do.

"She stole my tower!" Melka growled. "Mine! _Hate_ her! You! You are such a nice Breton! You will help Melka kill Petra! Get my tower back!"

"Um…I'm not a Breton," Marcus felt obliged to point out.

"Oh?" Melka stopped her ranting and peered curiously at Marcus with her beady black eyes. "Well, you all look alike to Melka."

His dragon advised him to help Melka to get the shield for Igmund. Now might be a good time to try to negotiate that deal, since he still wasn't certain he could trust Melka. He didn't know how long she'd been held imprisoned here, but she seemed decidedly…unbalanced.

"I'm looking for something that's supposed to be here," he told Melka now. "A large shield, Dwarven-made." He gave her the rest of the description Igmund had given him. "If I let you out, will you help me get it?"

"Shield, yessss," Melka hissed. "Hrofgrir's shield! Melka remembers. Melka will help! Just get my tower back, and the shield is yours!"

Marcus nodded and pulled the chain that opened the cage. Melka stepped out and stretched, fluffing out her feathers and flexing the claws on her hands and feet. "This way!" she grinned. "Petra's followers will be waiting. Many traps to avoid, but Melka knows! Follow Melka!"

With Melka's assistance, it was easy to avoid the deadly traps. Melka herself was a one-woman – bird? – wrecking crew, and Marcus had little to do except follow along and provide assistance where needed. In the final chamber he stayed well out of the way as Melka and Petra flung fireballs at each other, catching the few remaining Forsworn in their midst. The Hagraven duel resulted in their mutual elimination, however, and Marcus felt a bit sorry that Melka would never enjoy ownership of her crumbling real estate again. He found the shield and returned to Markarth to Jarl Igmund.

"I have to say in all honesty that I didn't think you'd succeed," Igmund told him. "I see you're made of sterner stuff than I thought. In any case, you've done me a great service, and I'm grateful. There is room in my court for a new Thane, and it would be my privilege and pleasure to grant you that title. There is but one requirement you would need to fulfill."

_Here we go again…_ How he kept his eyes from rolling he would never figure out.

"What is that, my lord?"

"I could only grant the title to someone who is known throughout my Hold, and who owns at least one piece of property in my city. You've already helped my people by uncovering the corruption ring run by the Silver-Bloods. Speak to me when you've acquired the property, and I will be happy to name you my Thane."

Marcus bowed and left. Thane of Markarth? But he was already Thane of Whiterun. Apparently, that didn't make a difference. He remembered the conversation he'd had with Lydia months ago, on this very topic. It had been her opinion at the time that the Dragonborn should be a hero for all the people of Skyrim, not just the Nords, and not restricted to one Hold, or loyal to only one Jarl.

Marcus had no intention of becoming Thane of Windhelm, unless and until Jarl Ulfric stepped down or was killed, and he didn't think he could stand being Thane to someone as clueless to what went on in her own Hold as Laila Law-Giver, who had a Thalmor plant in her own court. He didn't necessary like Igmund, but he didn't dislike the man, either. And if he was to keep his promise to Madanach to work toward an independent Reach, he might have more influence with Igmund if he was a member of the court.

He still didn't want to move his family out here, though. Blaise had just started his own apprenticeship with Adrianne, and the girls had their friends in Whiterun whom they'd be very reluctant to leave. Come to think of it, the only child he'd seen here so far was the jeweler's daughter.

No. His family would stay right where they were. He'd come out here to visit and to check on his property – once he bought it – and to see if there was anything Jarl Igmund needed, but he wasn't making Markarth a permanent home.

He sent his letter off to Lydia, with a post script added requesting her to send him additional fund to purchase a home in Markarth called Vlindrel Hall. He made arrangement for it to be furnished with two children's rooms, instead of the optional alchemy lab and enchanting room, insisted on having rope and lattice-frame beds with feather mattresses instead of stone, and was promised by Rhaerek that all would be ready within the week. While he wasn't planning on having the children live here permanently, it would be nice to have a place where they could stay together when they visited.

At last the day came when Jarl Igmund named him Thane and gave him Argis the Bulwark as a Housecarl to watch over his property.

"Bulwark, eh?" he grinned, meeting the man for the first time in Vlindrel Hall.

"Yeah," Argis smiled, clasping wrists with his Thane. "It's because I'm so big. A bulwark is a defensible wall."

He was big, that was for certain. Even Marcus had to look up to him, and he wasn't short. Argis had sandy-blonde hair with streaks of red in it, a tattoo spiraling on one cheek and a nasty-looking series of scars across the left side of his face that had taken the sight from his eye. He wore steel armor and carried a standard-issue steel sword and shield. Well, he would have to see about getting the man some better equipment. Right now his coffers had been tapped heavily, with the purchase of the house, but if there was one thing Marcus had learned about Skyrim it was full of barrows, and those barrows usually held treasure.

A loud knocking on the door sent Argis to answer it. He returned shortly with a sealed parchment addressed to "Marcus Dragonborn."

"Who is it from?" Marcus asked.

"Dunno," Argis said. "I asked the courier, and all he said was that some creepy-looking fellow gave it to him to deliver. Then he lit out like a dozen dremora were on his tail. Thought he was gonna break his neck goin' down the stairs."

Marcus opened up the note and frowned.

"What's it say, Thane?" Argis asked.

"Just this handprint and 'We Know'," Marcus replied. "What kind of crap is that?"

"That's the Black Hand," Argis whistled. "You must have pissed someone off, beggin' your pardon, Thane."

"But what does it mean, 'We know'?" Marcus said. "What do they know?"

"It's a sign from the Dark Brotherhood," Argis explained. "They're letting you know they're aware of something you may have done. I'll be sure to get an extra lock or two installed on the door today."

Marcus sat down at the table, mulling it over in his mind. It had to be about death of Grelod the Kind. But he hadn't killed her, that was the thing! She'd died of a heart attack, or stroke, or something similar. Apparently, that didn't cut the mustard with the Dark Brotherhood. Well, screw them. He wasn't going to live his life in fear, looking over his shoulder every five seconds. As long as they didn't hurt his children, he didn't care if they knew, or thought they knew what he'd done.

* * *

><p>Marcus awoke, bleary-eyed with a pounding head. What the hell happened? He hadn't had anything to drink the night before, beyond a mead or two with Argis before retiring for the night. He shifted, trying to bring his vision into focus.<p>

This wasn't his bed. He was lying on a wooden floor, strewn with bones and viscera. A lantern flickered in one corner, and a sconce in the opposite, but other than that, it was dim in this room. Shack, he corrected himself as he heard the sounds of frogs croaking on the other side of the wall, and birds chirping restlessly somewhere nearby. Frogs. Swamp. He was in a marsh, somewhere, if the fetid odor of rotting vegetation was any indication.

Groaning, he tried to sit up. Fortunately his hands were free. Well, at least he wasn't a prisoner again…or was he?

"Sleep well?" a feminine voice purred.

Marcus allowed his eyes to dart around his field of vision, finally landing on a figure seated on top of a bookcase in the corner. The woman wore red and black armor similar to the assassin who had attempted to take his life in Ivarstead.

"Where am I?" he demanded, but even to his own ears the voice sounded wheezy.

"Does it matter?" she asked archly. "You're warm, dry…and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for poor, old Grelod, hmm?"

"Oh," Marcus said grimly. "So you know about that."

"Half of Skyrim knows," the woman chuckled. "Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand…I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins to boot."

"I didn't kill Grelod," Marcus pointed out. "She had a heart attack and dropped dead."

"Your methods are your own, of course," the woman smirked. "But you see, there is a slight…problem."

"The only problem I see right now is that you've made the mistake of kidnapping me."

"You'd do well to listen until I finish," the woman snapped. "You're very lucky you aren't paying for this with your life as it is."

Marcus realized it was pointless to argue with her. She had her own version of what had occurred, and nothing he could say would change her mind. "Say what you want to say, then, and let's get this over with."

"Well, then…you see, that little Arentino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract."

"Then why didn't you answer the poor kid?" Marcus shot back, unable to stop himself. "Do you have any idea what condition I found that poor boy in? Exhausted, starving, living with the crap you make people strew around in your silly rituals? If I hadn't gone in and talked to him, he would have starved to death or passed away from sheer exhaustion trying to contact you and your 'associates'!"

For a moment, the woman looked as though she would leap off the bookshelf at him, dagger flashing, but she restrained herself with a monumental effort.

"Nevertheless, that contract was a Dark Brotherhood kill…a kill you stole from us. A kill you must repay."

"How about if I start with you?" Marcus had had enough. In what he would always consider her gravest oversight, she'd left him unbound with his weapons at hand. But even if he didn't have them, he was quickly becoming a formidable fighter. He was sick of assassins coming after him, sick of threatening letters being sent, of people watching his house and his family, of children being forced to endure an endless ritual with a rotting corpse in the hopes of making a contract to kill someone so deplorably evil that it was only by the grace of God he hadn't killed the woman outright.

All the rage and frustration he felt was aimed at this woman now, sitting there sanctimoniously judging _him, _a good man trying to do a good job, when she ran an organization of paid assassins whose only mission in life was to steal the joy from others.

"_FUS RO DAH!" _he thundered, smashing the woman into the corner and knocking her completely off the shelf. The entire shack rattled, and several loose boards in the corners fell to the floor. She landed on the floor with an undignified _thud_, and Marcus was only dimly aware of gasps of fear and astonishment coming from behind him. There was no time to figure out if they were friend or foe; the woman was up on her feet in a flash and had drawn a wicked-looking dagger that gleamed an eerie red against the ebony black of its blade.

Marcus had drawn Dragonbane; the katana had a shock enhancement he felt would serve him well here. He slashed and she caught his steel with her blade. Sparks flew as she twisted her dagger in an attempt to disarm him. He knew a better way to disarm, but the tingling rawness in the back of his throat told him it was too soon to Shout again.

She feinted with her dagger, but Marcus didn't fall for it, leaping over the low sweep of her leg as she attempted to take him out at the knees. He brought the Akaviri blade down hard in a twisting slice that would have decapitated her on the spot if she hadn't bent herself backwards at the waist to avoid it. Throwing herself forward, she tumbled over his head and slashed with the dagger, but he caught it with a backward block of his katana and spun around so quickly with a slice to her midsection that she couldn't quite get out of the way in time. The leather parted and a line of darker red soaked her armor there.

"You're good," she grunted. "It's almost a shame I have to kill you."

"You haven't done it yet," Marcus taunted. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched."

Now the woman leaped and spun in a flurry of whirling attacks, and Marcus found it was all he could do to keep that evil-looking blade away from his vital organs. She caught him across his left arm, and he immediately felt the muscles weaken. Okay, so there was some kind of draining enchantment on that hell-spawned blade. Good to know. He felt his Thu'um recharge, and Shouted, _"Zun!"_ at her, but though her grip fumbled a bit, she didn't lose her weapon. She was too strong, or the Thu'um was too weak. If he lived through this, he'd have to see if he could find the other Words to the Shout.

"Was that a Shout?" the woman said. "I thought your name was just an affectation."

"It was a Shout," Marcus replied. "Couldn't you tell when I knocked you on your ass off the bookshelf?"

"It would take more than someone like you to knock me on my ass," she retorted.

"Shall I make it two in a row, then?" he jibed.

The woman renewed her efforts to cut him down, but by now Marcus had noticed a pattern to her fighting style. It was one of the things he had been taught in his tae kwon do class, to watch your opponents and notice the patterns into which they fell when they battled. Every school of martial arts was different, but each school had their own style. Learn the routines, remain flexible, and you can easily outthink your opponent every time.

Now, blocking her moves, Marcus noticed she seemed to restart from her first position, feint high, before moving into second position, attack low. If he took the opening she appear to give him, she was ready to block at third position, and riposte at fourth. High, low, block, attack. To be sure he had it right, he put her through it again. Fifth position, sweep kick; sixth position, slash left; seventh position, block low; eighth position, whirl and stab right. Sweep, slash, block, stab.

Marcus grinned. He had her now. When she moved to her sixth position he slipped under her guard and opened a wide cut along her unprotected right side. Gasping, she staggered backwards, the evil blade dropping from nerveless fingers.

"Well…played…" she muttered, collapsing onto the floor as the pool of blood beneath her spread wide. With a groan she gasped her last breath and lay still.

Now that he had a chance to take his bearings, Marcus looked around the tiny shack. Three people were kneeling against a wall opposite from where he'd woken up. Hooded, with hands bound behind their backs, they were clearly what the woman had referenced when she'd told him he needed to repay the kill he'd taken from the Dark Brotherhood. Probably by killing one of these three. He released them, but only the Nord man was grateful and promised never to breathe a word to anyone as he ran off across the marshes. The woman harangued him for treating her the way he had, even though he insisted he'd had no part in it. The Khajiit seemed to have been the one intended, since by his own admission he had many enemies. He took off on his own, leaving Marcus with the fishwife, Alea Quintus of Dragon Bridge, who nagged and badgered him all the way back to her home town. Marcus found himself reconsidering that perhaps _she _had been the intended target.

In the small lumber community of Dragon Bridge, Marcus approached one of the guards. "Who do I report a death to?" he asked.

The guard stopped, removed his helmet and looked at Marcus sternly. "Who's death?" he demanded.

"Someone from the Dark Brotherhood," he replied.

The guard's jaw slacked. "By Shor! You're serious aren't you? No one would joke about something like that!" He seemed to recover and pointed toward a long, low building. "Go see Commander Maro, there at the Penitus Occulatus headquarters. He'll want to know."

Marcus went over to the building and walked inside. Several Occulatus members were sitting around, sharpening weapons, repairing armor, taking a meal or resting. When he inquired about Commander Maro, he was directed toward an older man, hair graying at the temples, who glanced at him and said, "I think you're in the wrong building, friend. If you're looking for the inn, it's across the street."

"I was looking for you, actually, if you're Commander Maro," Marcus said.

"Well? What do you want?"

"The guard outside told me I should inform you, I've killed a member of the Dark Brotherhood."

Commander Maro straightened. "You have my attention, sir," he said. "Which one? Was it one of the lesser assassins?"

"I don't know who she was," Marcus admitted. "We never got around to introductions."

"She?" Maro demanded, with something akin to excitement in his voice. "Was she young? Blonde? Did she carry an evil-looking blade?"

"Yes, yes and do you mean this one." Marcus pulled the dagger out to show Maro.

"By the Eight!" Maro exulted. "I can't believe you actually did it! You've killed Astrid!"

"Astrid was…?"

"She's the leader of the Dark Brotherhood!" Maro grinned. "Or was, now, thanks to you! My friend, this is a stroke of good fortune! Long have I watched the Dark Brotherhood's movements, waiting for the time to strike. That time is now!"

"Glad I could help," Marcus said wryly, putting the dagger away.

"You can do more than help," Maro said, a gleam in his eyes. "My agents have recently acquired the passphrase to their Sanctuary in Falkreath. It is 'Silence, my brother.' Every assassin in that hole must be put down, or another will simply take Astrid's place. You, my friend…you've slain their leader. This honor should be yours."

_Because of course it will mean you won't have to risk any of your men._

"Do this, and you will be rewarded most handsomely!" Maro continued. He marked the location of the Sanctuary on Marcus' map, and the Dragonborn promised to return if he was successful.

He wasn't doing it for Maro, or even for the Empire, he told himself. He was doing it so that no one would have to live in fear, looking over their shoulders, that someone might take a contract out on them, so that his children would never have to worry their father might be taken from them.

_I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do,_ he told himself. He returned to Markarth, though it took him most of the evening to get there. Argis was relieved, beside himself with remorse and humiliation that his Thane had been abducted out of their own home.

"I put the new locks in, just as I said I would, Thane," Argis worried. "How could they have gotten in?"

"My guess is that they were already inside, hidden somewhere, Argis," Marcus told him. "Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. They've been gunning for me for a while."

"So you're going to Falkreath, then?" the big Nord asked.

"Yeah," Marcus said. "And you're coming with me. I need someone to watch my back."

Argis grinned. "Lead on, Thane."

* * *

><p>It took them all day to travel from Markarth to Falkreath, and they ended up staying at the Dead Man's Drink to rest up before attempting the next, most difficult part of their journey.<p>

"What…is the music…of life?" the sinister-looking door rasped at them.

This was it. Time to give the passphrase.

"Silence, my brother," Marcus intoned.

"Welcome….home."

The door opened of its own accord, and Marcus threw a glance at Argis, who nodded he was ready, before they moved quietly into the Sanctuary.

The first to challenge them was a big, beefy, shirtless Nord with bare feet and Marcus heard Argis' swiftly indrawn breath before the man noticed them and suddenly began morphing into something that was nothing like a man.

"Werewolf!" Argis cried, dismayed. "Don't let him bite you, Thane!"

The werewolf was amazingly fast, and incredibly powerful. He struck out with huge, clawed hands and lunged with razor-sharp teeth snapping within an inch of their faces. Slaver dripped from his jaws and his eyes burned with an unholy hate.

Growling and snarling, he was more than a match for two ordinary fighters, but Marcus wasn't ordinary. He briefly wondered with some amusement if Kyne's Peace would work on a werewolf, but he'd still never gotten around to activating it. There were too many other more useful Shouts he wanted first. He had picked up a few more in the last couple of months, and decided to try one now.

"_KRII!" _he Shouted, and watched in satisfaction as the werewolf shuddered from its effect. He seemed to weaken, and Argis renewed his efforts from his flanking position. Soon, it was over, and Marcus held up a hand for Argis to remain silent while he listened.

"_Laas,"_ he Whispered, and he saw four other auras light up, one quite close to them. Why hadn't that one come running to the aid of its fellow Brother? He couldn't have failed to hear the commotion.

_Sibling rivalry, perhaps?_ Marcus mused. They might all be Dark Brotherhood, but that didn't necessarily mean they all got along. Well, it made things a little easier for Argis and him. The Dark Brotherhood were formidable fighters, if Astrid and this werewolf were anything to go by.

Dead now, the werewolf had reverted to his human form, and Argis stood looking at the body for a long moment. "What a waste," he muttered.

"Come on," Marcus whispered. "There's another around the corner ahead. Get ready."

It was an Argonian, who had a tendency to use invisibility on himself and strike from nowhere. He didn't count on the Dragonborn, who used Aura Whisper to locate him and strike true each time. Argis floundered around and got hit several times, but Marcus stayed out of reach of its poisoned blade and in a very short time, he joined his fellow Brother in death.

Just beyond the smithing area where the Argonian had been working, Marcus heard the familiar chanting, and to his surprise, saw the glyphs of a Word Wall lighting up.

"Thane?" Argis called. "What are you doing?"

_Lun._ Leech. This Word belonged to the one he'd used earlier, _krii._ He unlocked its meaning with his last dragon soul to fully understand how to use it. His Marked for Death Shout had just become stronger by a third.

Marcus and Argis then made their way through the rest of the Sanctuary, with Marcus using his Aura Whisper to locate their quarry before stumbling across them. Each of the last three assassins were formidable in their own right. The Dunmer woman in the alchemy lab fought viciously, and like the Argonian she used poisons on her blade. She kept returning her dagger to her scabbard and re-drawing it, and Marcus realized the poison was somehow in the scabbard, and she was putting on a fresh application each time she drew the blade. Both he and Argis needed cure poison potions when the fight was over before they were ready to proceed.

The Redguard assassin was the next they encountered, and Marcus was amazed at how he somehow managed, with his dual-wielding style of fighting, to keep both Marcus and Argis at bay while inflicting damage. Marcus felt it was like trying to fight a Cuisinart blender. But eventually the Redguard made a mistake and Argis took advantage of it, slipping under his guard and striking the fatal blow.

"Damn shame," he muttered, and Marcus was beginning to think Argis preferred the company of men to women. Not that it mattered to him. He was straight and preferred it that way. He just hoped it wouldn't make things awkward later.

The old wizard in the last room was the toughest by far. Immune to his own magic, he had no qualms about casting fireball after fireball at them, and the resulting shrapnel of crockery and other things that whizzed around in the resulting explosions had both younger men diving for cover and resorting to their bows in tight quarters to pick the old man off.

Finally it was done, and the two men carefully explored the rest of the Sanctuary to clear it of valuables before the Penitus Occulatus could come and search the place. Argis took the werewolf's battleaxe as a trophy and Marcus picked up another of the unusual gems he'd found. This made three.

It was done. Skyrim could rest a little easier knowing they need never fear that an assassin would come for them in the night, deserved or not, and Marcus felt he had finally settled a score. They returned to Dragon Bridge and reported to Commander Maro, who was delighted with the news, and promised to inform the Emperor himself at once. Marcus wasn't really sure he wanted that kind of notoriety. It tended to breed its own form of retaliation. Still, the reward was nice, and certainly helped bolster his already depleted coffers, especially now he had two homes to maintain.

_And it's only going to get worse if I keep becoming Thane all over the damn place,_ he thought wryly.

"Are we headed back to Markarth, Thane?" Argis asked.

Marcus shook his head. "No. There's somewhere else I have to go. We'll head to Whiterun, and you can meet my family, and then we'll make plans from there for the next trip."

"Where are we going?" Argis asked, curious.

Marcus grinned. "Argis, have you ever been to Winterhold?"

* * *

><p><em>[Author's Note: Yay! The Dark Brotherhood has been destroyed! Oh, don't worry. I only say "Yay!" here because this is what Marcus would do. I've actually played the quest through with a different character and found it interesting. Not as interesting as the Thieves' Guild quest, but still well thought-out.<em>

_Finally, Marcus gets to head up to Winterhold to see what he can learn about the Elder Scrolls. It's been on the back burner for a while, and now he feels that time is pressing, and he really ought to get moving on this. But things aren't going so well in Winterhold…stay tuned!]_


End file.
